


The Dark Brightness of the Stars

by orientinme



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Secondary Characters Feature Prominently, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-10-03 05:32:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orientinme/pseuds/orientinme
Summary: After Billy fails to register him and John for the classes they wanted, they both end up stuck in James Flint's "18th Century French Philosophy: the creation of man as an Individual and a Citizen". Of course, John knows it's an absolutely terrible idea to cheat his way through Flint's class. That doesn't mean he won't try it anyway.





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SomeCoolName](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeCoolName/gifts).



> This is a gift for the wonderful SomeCoolName! I know you like College AUs, so I thought you'd appreciate it if I mixed it up with our latest obsession ;) I so so so hope you'll like the beginning of your birthday gift and joyeux anniversaiiiiiiiiire <3

 

 _Every man has his dignity. I’m willing to forget mine, but at my own discretion and not when someone tells me to._ \- Denis Diderot.

* * *

 

Of course, it was all Billy’s fault. Without him forgetting the deadline to submit their course requests, they’d have both gotten away with the classes they wanted, with the teachers they needed to have in order to pass, and at the timeslots they both needed to have nice schedules. But Billy had forgotten about the deadline for God knows what reason while John was working and could do nothing about it, and now they were both stuck trying to find spots where they could fit – meaning where no one else wanted to be.

He could try and suck it up for a while, but he was not talking to Billy _ever again_.

“If you’re so ready to suck it up, how about you shut up about it too?” Max admonished him.

She was preparing her dinner in the kitchen’s dormitory and he had been rambling for the better part of the evening, which was much more than he’d hoped she’d give him.

“You saving me a part of that, aren’t you?” He asked as she poured the soup she’d made into a bowl. He was freezing cold and regretted only wearing his _Han shot first_ t-shirt. “Pretty please? Out of compassion for me being stuck in James Flint’s class for a whole semester?”

Her accusatory glance pierced him but she poured him a portion from her own bowl nonetheless before sitting next to him.

“You’re going to be enjoying Charles Vane’s company too, don’t forget about that.” She added, sarcasm dripping from her tone.

John, for once in his life, had been tactful so far and had carefully avoided bringing that name up altogether. Max’s ex-girlfriend, Eleanor, had had a thing going on with Vane while whatever it was she’d had with Max was _also_ going on.

They ate in silence for a while before Max concluded, as Silver was washing their bowls:

“You know, I hear Flint’s not that awful. He actually just gives proper classes. It’s just that you can’t cheat your way through and get away with it.”

“Yeah, _precisely._ Have you not seen who you’re talking to?” He gestured in the vague direction of his face to bring the point home.

That made her laugh. But they both knew he was right – in his four years since starting college, he had probably never passed anything fair-handedly, even when he could have.

“Come on, suck it up. I’m gonna be stuck with Edward Teach for _Financial systems in post-Soviet economies_ , you don’t hear me complaining.”

John grimaced. Teach – another one he’d have never put at the top of his course request form.

“Well, then, when’s the next _very_ big frat party?” He concluded.

 

-

 

Because of the rules of natural selection, there were only two kinds of people in Professor Flint’s “18th Century French Philosophy: creating the modern conception of the Individual and the Citizen” class: those who really, really wanted to study 18th century French philosophy with a competent teacher, and those who most definitely did not but had found themselves without a choice on the matter – meaning Billy and John.

Flint’s composure was that of a man trying desperately to make people believe he did not despise them and yet failed miserably. He had a military poise, his hands behind his back and his shoulders straighter than the sharp angles of the desk in front of him, his gaze assessing everyone in the room. He seemed to take more room than he should have, even though the classroom was the amphitheatre kind, one of the places where the university tried to keep the spirit of old-schoolness alive, with wood everywhere and a gigantic blackboard behind Flint.

“Good morning everyone. I’m Professor James Flint, your teacher for the semester. My assistant must have sent you emails during the weekend with the curriculum and the mandatory readings. As, I hope, you are all well aware, it so happens that 18th century French philosophy is public domain by now, meaning you can find everything online and have no excuse for not reading the source material, which is basically all that matters.” Another dramatic pause ensued.

There was no taking your eyes a way from a man like that, not even for a second and Flint seemed to be aware of it – the kind of magnetism he had.

John did not survive for so long in this life without learning to read people – and to read them as accurately as possible. That was why it puzzled him a lot to observe the apparent contrast of a man so obviously disregarding of academics, peers, and, if his frown while looking at them was any indication, students, and yet so hell-bent on providing a comprehensive and genuinely good class. John, in his internal typology, did not have a box to put someone like that. Perfectionist narcissist? Maybe.

“Now. Let’s begin with a _very_ quick recap of the political and social situation in France at the beginning of the 18th century.”

 

Leaving the class, he ignored Billy’s complacent smile – he’d forgive him later – and rehashed the last three hours. Obviously, he was going to have to work _for real_. Overshadowing that thought – which would have been first in order of importance any other day – was his awe at the Professor’s oratory capacities. John cared very little for whatever shit happened in 18 th century France, let alone for what philosophers back then thought of the social contract and the transformation of man into a citizen, but Flint managed to make it seem _fascinating_ by sheer power of will.

 

-

 

The arrival of his room-mate later that day cut short his considerations regarding charisma, and what it was, and who had it, and whether it could be learned. Jacob was in the Engineering College, whereas John was in History, and they had such diverging life schedules they had barely seen each other the first semester and John doubted that would change anytime soon.

“Billy’s extending his apologies, once again, in the hope you’ll finish by accepting them.” Jacob told him after he’d taken a shower, changed clothes, and picked his sports training bag.

“Yeah, yeah. Tell him I wanna be mad a bit longer, if he does not mind.” John turned around on his stomach. He was going to have to force himself out of bed if he wanted dinner or a shower – as it was, he could fall asleep right now, even though it was still _fucking Monday_. Why was he so exhausted?

“You’re a fucking petulant child, y’know that?”

“Fuck you, Garett.”

“A petulant child who calls people by their last name when he’s faced with his bullshit.”

“Don’t you have whatever training it is you have on Mondays?”

“It’s called tennis.”

“Then go fetch some balls and leave me alone.”

“We’re still hitting the gym tomorrow, right?” Jacob asked on his way to the door.

A grunting was all he got as an answer, but he took it as a yes.

 

-

 

John woke up Tuesday morning to a text message from Max:

_Didn’t see you for dinner; you alive? Btw, Teach’s a bitch! But my Urban Economics’ teacher is real fun, Rackham. You two would get along, same lousy faces._

He answered before hopping out of bed:

_Flint’s insane and I think I am actually supposed to study???! and learn stuff??!_

While he showered, he remembered he had a shift with Max that day at _The Walrus_. He had been cook there ever since his first year at Underhill, and after he’d introduced Max to Gates, the manager, she became a waitress there too. _The Walrus_ was a grill restaurant, at the other side of the campus compared to the dormitories, roughly a twenty-minutes walk away, but it was still the best deal of John’s life.

 

-

 

 

He waited for Max to finish cleaning while eating on the counter after they’d closed. They waived Idelle goodbye as they parted ways outside and Max and John went their own way. He hated the way he smelled after his shifts – greasy, and sticky. The walk home was an exercise in longing for a shower.

“So, Flint? You still haven’t told me about the torture he’s put you through?”

John shrugged, unwilling to admit he had been overly dramatic.

“Actually, it was impressive. I mean… you know? People with charisma are impressive.” He tiptoed around.

It was cold, January-like cold, and Max’s face was hidden in her wool scarf so he almost missed her half-hearted smile. Their footsteps crunched on the snow, almost too loud given how late it was and how no one was in the streets anymore. He had not cared that much about Eleanor before, but ever since she left Max a wreck, he really wished he’d punched her in the face when he still had the chance.

“And you’re getting to know Vane tomorrow right?”

“Yep, _Spanish_ _colonization in the Americas and the emergence of European Capitalism_. Thanks, Billy.”

“Come on, when are you planning on burying the hatchet?”

“Soon. I’m realizing he’s my only other company – not counting you – and… y’know, my life’s getting pretty lonely without dick jokes.”

He did not miss her rolling her eyes and nudged her playfully on the shoulder, happy to see her react with something that wasn’t half-hearted.

“See what I did there? You’re a lesbian and… dick jokes? See?”

“Shut up, John. For fuck’s sake.”

 

-

 

Vane’s had a Flint feeling to him, but subdued. John was not that interested in the subject he was teaching but as with Flint’s class, he actually had to listen if he wished to pass. Billy’s calculations seemed to have been the same as his, given the attention he was paying to what was being said. Or was it -? But John was pretty adamant by now that Billy’s infatuation with Ben was growing into something serious; after all, they’d been together for five months now, which was longer that John’s ever seen Billy do.

As they left class, he approached Billy.

“We’re hitting the gym with Garett later, you coming?”

Billy flashed him his usual grin and just like that, all was well between them.

 

-

 

It was Wednesday and Wednesdays were among the days John pestered Max until she gave him a part of what she had cooked for herself. Outside of the restaurant, he never got close to a kitchen, which baffled her to no end.

“Can you believe that fucker?” That Wednesday was also one where it wasn’t John complaining, but Max. As had been the case for the better part of the previous year, it was about Eleanor.

“You should really stop paying attention to what she says, y’know.”

But Max wasn’t really looking for sound advice.

“She dares come to _my_ restaurant, and then asks me to talk, and then tells me she _regrets_. Bitch? For real?”

John hid his smirk in his mug of tea.

“By the way, we’re going to the frat party you must’ve seen posters for.” She added.

“I was not aware there was a “ _we”_ that was going out tonight.” But his eyebrows were now raised in a way that clearly signalled his interest.

“Well, you might have to catch up on some shit in my life.”

“Really?”

“I met a girl, in Teach’s class. She’s amazing. I think she’s dating my other professor, you know, Rackham? But she seems hella interested anyway.”

John was left speechless for a moment.

 

The party was held at a frat house, that John had already probably gone to without actually remembering any of it afterwards. Max pretended to bump into that girl, Anne, and John could only look dumbfounded for a while that Max had a crush on such a girl. But, hey – as long as she wasn't Eleanor, he was not going to complain.

He proceeded to get wasted very quickly once he spotted Billy and Ben.

 

-

 

It was never wise to go out on Wednesdays, but John only ever remembered that fact on Thursdays, when he had to go to class with a headache, a serious attention deficit, and eyes that screamed of what he’d done the night before. He did his best to try and pay attention to Flint’s detailing of Diderot’s life and consequent philosophy, and he could only guess that the man had a particular soft spot for _Jacques le Fataliste_ – he regretted being way too hammered to remember any of it afterwards.

Trying to blend in while leaving the room, he just stared at his feet, books under his arm, and a resolute desire to get as soon as possible to a place full of ibuprofen and darkness.

“Mr. Silver. May I have a word.” It didn’t even sound like a question. John was actually pretty certain that with so much self-righteousness packed in a single body, Flint probably had no idea what a question mark could possibly be.

He stepped out of the line of students exiting the classroom and approached the desk, where Flint was gathering his notes.

“I am surprised none of your professors so far have informed you that sleeping in class is a severe disrespect to the person standing in front of you.”

John would have had a repartee ready at the go any other day, but last night’s alcohol had been so tremendously shitty his head was just a vast echo chamber by now.

“Insomnia issues.” He mumbled. A heavy silence ensued, during which Flint’s stare seemed to kill him at least a dozen times, before he remembered to add: “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

With a nod, Flint acknowledged that was the response he had been waiting for. His face was a mask in disdain as he resumed what he was doing, John’s presence totally forgotten.

He took that as his cue for leaving the room. Billy was waiting for him outside.

“If you can’t deal with Wednesday alcohol anymore, I suggest you stop following our dear Max around.” He greeted him.

“Please, shut up.”

 

-

 

They were nearing the end of January by then, and several deadlines were approaching. They had papers to give back for their classes, and John had obviously left everything to the last minute, not realizing that that might not have been the best thing to do considering Flint had already noticed him, and not in the good kind of way.

The second deadline was his pay-check coming, and he took some time to give Randall a call while walking from the dormitory to the _Walrus_ for his shift that night.

“Yes?” The voice was hoarse and tired but otherwise amenable, which was a lot given Randall’s predisposition.

“Hey, Randall. It’s John.”

“Yeah, I can read the fucking screen of my fucking phone.”

“Alright, alright...” John stopped himself from laughing out loud and continued: “I wanted to ask you if you needed anything. I’ll be receiving my check soon and -.”

“God, you’re such a fucking shithead.”

John rolled his eyes. Those calls were always a challenge but one which, at least, he had learned to enjoy as time went by.

“Thank you for your kind words, but you haven’t answered my question.” John insisted.

“I don’t need no money, that’s my answer. Are you going to class?”

“Of course.” John answered.

“Then it’s all fine by me. Have a nice day and stop bothering me. Betsy says hi.” And Randall hung up.

John laughed silently for almost the rest of the way thinking about his guardian and his guardian’s cat. Randall had been his last guardian before he turned 21, and the one with whom things were at once most complicated and most tremendously simple.

For the first three years he had been in his care, starting when he was 17, Randall had expected absolutely nothing of John, which, to John’s greatest pleasure, was everything he was willing to give. However, after he’d managed to graduate high school a year or two behind schedule, Randall had offered him to pay with some of his savings for John’s tuition if he went to university.

John had declined, absolutely adamant about being not chained to someone for the rest of his life – he did not know exactly if he would have felt chained by the money or by the intention associated to it –, but his social worker had made him accept it.

And so, there he was. He still did not like the feeling of _owing_ , but as time had gone by, the sensation of being trapped by someone else’s kindness had disappeared, and he had learned to live with what he felt of as a debt he’d get to repay, one day, in its own time. Randall’s otherwise non-existent social capacities made it easier to not feel like he owed him too much anyway.

 

-

 

He had a shift Friday at noon, right after Vane’s class. There were lots of traffic on Fridays, with staff and teachers added to the usual flow of students. It was always on Fridays that people got tired either of preparing something at home, or of going to the cafeteria.

John was exhausted, having spent almost all week working for a shitty paper he’d given Vane back that morning, and he was absolutely certain he’d have to do something better for what was to come if he wanted to pass. Now, he was just anxious about how he would manage to pull something off for Flint’s paper, which was due on Monday.

“Silver, what the fuck? I _said_ no salt on the fries?” Idelle yelled at him.

He left the gas stove, unable to hear a word she was saying over the combined noise of the kitchen and the clients. The kitchen was right behind the counter, where Gates was usually serving beer to those who ate there and not at the tables.

“Who the fuck eats fries without salt?” He asked when he understood what the problem was.

“I do, Mr. Silver.” Said a man sitting at the counter who he could not see because of Idelle’s frame. She turned around quickly and – of course. It was Flint. John managed to conjure the cockiest smile he could muster but knew he was failing under Flint’s glacial stare. _Fuck_.

“Of course. Coming right away.”

Idelle had gone back to facing him and was unable to keep a straight face. He just hoped she would not burst out laughing anytime soon. What was that thing about Murphy’s law again? Anything that _can_ happen, will happen.

He swore vehemently at least a dozen times under Joshua’s and Joji’s disapproving stares as he prepared fries without any fucking salt and gave them to Joji to give to Idelle, refusing to go anywhere near the end of the kitchen until Flint had left.

 

-

 

Max stared him down for a few silent seconds.

“You’re setting yourself up for failure and big trouble.” She finally answered.

“Can you just ask? Please?”

“You’ll get caught.”

“It’s Sunday. I have waited two days for a revelation on Voltaire’s vs. Rousseau’s conceptions of man in… two thousand words! and _it did not happen_. Now, can you ask your friend for her paper? I’ll copy _smartly_.”

“You’ll get caught. You know I’m always right.”

“Oh God, Max. I’ve done this for four years. I never get caught. Because the problem is not that I’m not smart, it’s just that I’m lazy. Ok? I won’t copy. I’ll just… take the general idea. You know how I do! Now, please?”

“John… friend’s advice, don’t.”

He didn’t answer this time. Maybe she was right – but he knew she could not _not_ help him. And it _was_ Sunday night.

 

-

 

The knot in his stomach was real and tight as he placed his paper on the pile as he exited the class. Max was always right.

 

-

 

Max was always right.

 

He found Flint’s mail after his Tuesday night shift. He was summoned to Flint’s office Wednesday, at 9 am. He stared at his screen for ten good minutes with a litany of _fucks_ coming out of his mouth and trying his best not to call Max to get some reassurance. She’d warned him.

A stone had sunk to the bottom of his stomach. This was bad. The school was not lenient on that kind of stuff. He breathed deeply, trying to tell himself it would take a really, really dedicated teacher to prove he had cheated. He hadn’t taken stuff word for word from somewhere else, more.. ideas. That took time to prove. Flint surely had better things to do with his time?

But that thought was not enough to grant him sleep.

 

-

 

John had not felt that anxious about a meeting since he was ten and he had been moved away from a foster couple he had liked and was set to meet a new one. But there was something about Flint that made him utterly uncomfortable – and the situation was not helping.

He willed himself to remember everything life had made him learn the harsh way when it came to being in trouble: first, be adamant about not being wrong until it becomes untenable. Second, smile. Third, bargain. The last two being, of course, most useful used simultaneously.

“You’re early, Mr. Silver.” A voice said from further down the hallway.

Flint was wearing more casual clothing than what he usually had on to give his classes, complete with a grey _Underhill University_ sweater. He fidgeted with his keys before picking the one that opened his office. John noticed his key chain was a ship. John hated ships. That man really was the caricature of the upper middle-class humanities teacher. Tenuous British accent included.

His thoughts were interrupted when he stepped inside the room and Flint turned on the switch behind him. The place was stacked from wall to wall with books, most of them bound in leather, in a fashion John had only ever seen in TV, never in real life. The place smelled of wood and leather, combined, and was cosy in a way he had not anticipated – like the person living in it cared about the place.

“Please, have a sit.” Flint told him.

John swallowed nervously, suddenly brought back to the reality of his situation. He sat in one of the three chairs facing the desk, where nothing but photos he could not see and a lamp were lying around, just as Flint sat in his.

“I always prefer to tell students before I make their situation known to the administration office of the College. I am certain you’re very well aware of what we are talking about, so I would be most grateful if we -.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, what are _we_ talking about?” John had not hoped that he’d find himself in a situation where he would have to test Professor Flint’s temperament, but there he was.

“Let’s not delude each other, Mr. Silver. I do not like to be taken for an imbecile.”

“I’m very much afraid there is a misunderstanding here. What exactly is it that I am taking you an imbecile for?”

Flint sighed heavily. John knew he should be treading lightly. The man did not look full of neither patience, nor understanding.

“Listen to me. I don’t like smartasses. You plagiarized your essay. Maybe another teacher, after just one month, would have looked the other way, for such a minor assignment. Maybe you are _used_ to teachers looking the other way, even for minor assignments. However, I am not looking the other way. And plagiarism, proven, is liable to expulsion. You should have known, Mr. Silver, that there is nothing for which I have less respect than intellectual dishonesty.”

 _Bargain!_ John’s mind yelled. He felt himself sinking – he’d never met someone like Flint. People usually avoided head-on confrontations until they became inevitable – they did not go for it, for the first assignment of the semester, on a basis that was blurry and frankly entirely avoidable.

“Well, I know that if you call my paper “plagiarism”, your understanding of the word is much broader than that of the administration.”

Flint’s eyebrows went up, in a gesture John hesitated to interpret. Was the man impressed with his foolishness for answering, or with the content of what he was saying?

“Are you… are you actually challenging me to prove you cheated?” Flint was almost laughing in disbelief, and it looked so much like disdain that John felt himself _boiling_ in anger. He’d lived too much of _this,_ of people looking down on him – he could not bear it silently anymore.

“I am sorry, but if “plagiarism” may be up for debate, cheating is definitely out of the picture. There is not a single sentence in my essay that comes from anywhere but my mind _and_ that is not between quotation marks.”

“We both know that’s not the point.” Flint had stopped laughing and was now looking dead serious, staring menacingly at John. “I don’t need your approval to go submit all this to the administration office. Your plan was that of one of my students a few years back. The examples you picked, the quotations you used, are all coming from the same person. I just wanted to warn you, beforehand, that you’d soon be facing expulsion. Now, this is over. You may leave.”

John was almost suffocating on his anger. He clearly understood now that this was more about Flint generally not liking him, from the beginning, combined to his general disdain for everything that was not like him, than it was about anything else. It was about the tacit understanding that people like John had nothing to do studying the kind of stuff people like Flint taught. It made him mad.

 _Beg!_ Was the last thing his inner voice said as he stood up from the chair, refusing to let Flint’s stare go unanswered. They both remained like that for a few moments. And then John broke it and went for the door.

 _Beg_! He closed the door behind him, without another word.


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Ongi, for betaing the shit out of this story, spending countless time re-reading my changes, and pushing me towards doing my best, all the time. It's a universally acknowledged fact that, by now, she knows this story and where it's headed better than I do! MERCI, MEUF.
> 
> SomeCoolName, I hope you're enjoying this ;)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr, i'm @orientinme

 

 _We are rarely proud when we are alone. -_ Voltaire.

 

“Okay, waouh. I’m… I need a second.” Max turned off the stove and went to sit by his side.

It was Wednesday night and he had spent the day pacing around. He’d gone to Vane’s class, but barely a word of it all had registered. He’d tried talking to Billy afterwards but he’d been in a hurry and told John he’d see him later. And now he was left with explaining everything to Max.

“You’re expelled?” She asked again, in disbelief.

“Apparently, yeah.”

She was staring at him, mouth agape.

“Fuck. Oh, God, John… fuck. What’s happening now?”

John rubbed his temples, looking at something on the wall behind her.

“I wait ‘til someone tells me? Fuck... I literally have no idea.”

“And -?” But what she had apparently meant as a question died so suddenly on her lips he was certain he knew what she was going to ask. _Randall_? _Your life?_ He was glad she’d stopped herself because that was precisely the subject he did not want to think about right now. _At all._

But Max’s gaze had shifted back from haphazard to more focused.

“Ok. Until you receive some kind of official confirmation, you just go to class. And go to work. Nothing else you can do now.” She asserted.

He stared at her as if she was crazy.

“I’m afraid you don’t understand, or didn’t pay close enough attention to -.”

“Shut up, John. I heard what you said. But there are several steps to undertake before expelling a student. And you cannot just stop going to class. You still live in the dorms. You still have stuff to do for Vane’s class. You still have to get minimum wage at _The Walrus_. And hell, you could still go to Flint’s class, just to show the bastard you’re certain you have nothing to be afraid of.”

Her tone of voice – confident, decisive, unapologetically commanding – was soothing. He breathed deeply, once, twice, and then closed his eyes. He’d fucked up real good.

“I’m such a shithead.” He whined.

“Yeah, but that’s okay. We’re all used to it by now.”

Max’s hand awkwardly brushed his, probably in an attempt at commiseration. They did not do emotions very well, the both of them.

“Do you want Brussels sprouts with me for dinner?” She finally asked him.

“Are you kidding me?”

“May I remind you that you’re in absolutely no position to question my life choices at the moment?”

 

-

 

He went to bed resolute about not going to Flint’s class Thursday morning. It seemed impossible to John that he could just go, and stand there, in his usual spot, left of the board, slightly in the back, and have the man look at him with all the contempt he had proven himself to hold for him.

But morning came and Max’s advice made more and more sense. And even _if_ he was to be expelled – God, how good would it feel to just go and show the man he did not give the slightest of fucks about his threats?

Billy was waiting for him in front of the class, two cups of coffee in hand.

“I’m not sure you want to associate with me right now.” John greeted him.

“Hum… yeah. Let’s just say I feel kinda guilty right now. Ben extends his “good luck”.”

John sneered and entered with Billy on his heels. He had been looking for Flint, so he would not miss his reaction to him being there, and hell was he _not_ disappointed. Flint’s mouth parted in silent shock as his eyebrows shot to the roof. And then another expression flashed across his face – something resembling pity. John might have been imagining it, but it took away all the resentful pleasure he had felt so far. Billy sat next to him nonetheless and John could not help but notice that Flint’s tone was hesitant at times. But he was surely imagining it.

He diligently took notes on the chapter Flint was devoting to the impact of Voltaire’s ideas on Europe at large, and was almost expecting Flint to stop him as he was on his way out, but nothing happened.

 

-

 

What John hated most about his situation was how powerless he felt. There was literally _nothing_ he could do. He could just… wait. Wait and see. There was nowhere he could go and yell, or bargain, or beg. He just had a sword hanging above his head, and he could just… nothing.

Jacob and Billy fetched him and forced him to go to the gym. Vane’s class, on Friday, went by without any conscious effort on his behalf. It was a reflex to make his way to _The Walrus_ right afterwards, and he was lost in his thoughts about the fact that he should probably – against Max’s advice – start packing his stuff. He had mentally begun to approach the perspective of explaining to Randall what had happened and the thought of that conversation was still the thing that weighed the heaviest on his chest.

He had almost forgotten, ever since he’d been put in Randall’s care, how it felt like to be a constant failure.

He was so lost in self-loathing he almost missed the scene in front of him as he entered the restaurant; Gates, talking from behind the counter to a man who had his back to John. Flint’s redhaired ponytail was unmistakable, just like the arc of his broad shoulders; John stopped dead in his track as the doorbell kept chiming above his head.

Gates spotted him almost immediately and seemed to stop himself mid-sentence – not like John would have known for sure, given he was too far to hear anything. Flint turned around, following Gates’ stare. His expression was unreadable, as it so often was. There was no mistaking the fact that both men had been talking about him.

John willed himself to walk to the personnel’s room nonetheless, only saying “hi” in passing to Gates, who remained silent.

Once in the kitchen, he sneaked a glance back to the counter, but Flint was gone.

 

-

 

It was Sunday night and John had actually packed some of his stuff back into his suitcase. The suitcase was still under his bed and he hadn’t said anything about it to Max, whose argument was that the longer things went by without anything happening, the best his chances were – a point of view he absolutely did not share.

Jacob had noticed him packing but hadn’t said anything.

That was when he received the email. It was from Featherstone, who worked in the Administration, and had been in charge of John’s case since day one, because of his special social regime and a scholarship he had managed to find for him, back then. It said almost nothing beside telling him to come to his office at 8 am on Monday.

That was it.

He resisted his urge to text Max. This was his problem now, and he knew he should go to sleep, and try not to look like a piece of trash by the day after. Jacob was already snoring. He knew he’d never manage to sleep.

 

-

 

It all felt eerily similar to what he had already been through with Flint; standing in an empty, ridiculously anonymous hallway, waiting for someone to tell him bad news. He had a knot in place of his stomach, another one in place of his entire chest. It felt awful.

Featherstone was dressed as usual, his ridiculously colourful tie so poorly tied it looked like he’d thrown both sides of it together as haphazardly as he could before finally forfeiting to how his reflection looked in the mirror. He could benefit from someone living with him who could help the poor man out.

“John, hi, good morning. I hope you had a nice weekend. I didn’t make you wait too long, have I?”

Featherstone ushered him inside, where John had to move aside a stack of what looked like administratively boring papers to be able to sit.

“Well, my boy. Haven’t you put yourself in some deep shit.” Featherstone began, as he seated himself in his very tired leather chair.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” John grumbled.

“Well, apparently, you didn’t know that James Flint is not to be messed with.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think I got the memo about that one by now.”

Featherstone sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You know I like you very much, right?” He resumed.

“Can we make this quick?” John did not feel like spending his whole day there. He had to pack three other boxes, and find a way to tell Randall he’d fucked up real good – and afterwards, find a new place to live, how to put food on his plate, and basically start a life from scratch and with nothing. Again.

“Of course, of course. I talked a lot with Mr. Flint last Wednesday and Thursday, when he came here.” Featherstone began. “I explained to him your situation – financial, familial, social. You are one hell of a lucky man; I’m not familiar with the specifics of his life story, but let’s say he has been, after giving it some thought, _receptive_ to your situation. You’re getting a second chance.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. So _that_ was where the pity he’d seen in Flint’s eyes Friday had come from.

“I’m sorry, did you make him feel so bad about my poor orphan story that he agreed not to get me expelled?”

“Yes, but don’t feel too blessed – it all comes with conditions. You’re lucky I was there to negotiate them by the -.”

“Oh my fucking God. You are unbelievable, man.” John’s relief took the form of him literally sinking in his chair, eyes wide and unbelieving, staring at Featherstone without quite seeing him.

“I’m not your “man”, John. Now, the conditions, if you will? Are you listening carefully? You’ll thank me later, don’t worry.” As an afterthought, he suddenly added: “And don’t swear like that, I’m not supposed to allow you to do that.”

 

-

 

 _Flint’s insane_. He texted Max right after leaving the administration building, rushing to the College of History, where, to his utter disbelief, he was still allowed to attend Flint’s 9 am class.

 _????????????_ Was his answer.

 _You’ll have to keep feeding me a bit longer apparently._ _But no more Brussels sprouts, please?_

She did not answer to that last one, but he did not worry much – he’d have her reaction soon enough.

 

-

 

As he was about to enter Flint’s classroom, he absent-mindedly brushed his hair back, thinking he might look less dishevelled and give a better impression if he attached them. He breathed twice before joining the flow of students entering the class. This time, he did not look for Flint head on, choosing to go sit closer to the front before raising his head.

Flint was still unpacking his course sheets from his bag but seemed to feel John’s gaze on him and met his stare. This was a second beginning, John thought, as their eyes met. So he nodded almost imperceptibly, the farther he’d ever accept to go in saying thank you. Flint’s stare remained ice-cold for a few unending moments, before he finally returned John’s nod.

 

-

 

“And that’s it? Just like that? You’re… forgiven?” Max asked with a disbelieving laugh.

“Don’t make me question it too much, I’m gonna end up believing it’s a sick joke and I am actually expelled.”

“Do you want tofu then?”

“Yes, please. But not over-cooked.”

“ _I_ am not a cook, so I do not guarantee anything.” She chastised him.

“Max! Love, when are you going to understand that me being a cook at _The Walrus_ is literally the biggest fraud of my life? Though I admit it’s a close tie with me being a history major in a non-fictitious university.”

Max had her back to him, but he saw her rolling her eyes nonetheless.

“Y’know, his case was flimsy to begin with anyway, he must’ve known it too.”

“Hum. Well, I’m still supposed to help him out with collecting and compiling the weekly assignments for his classes, as a sort of punishment, for the “maybe you cheated” part? Just paperwork stuff, TA’s job. His TA, Dufresne, y’know him? Featherstone kinda told me Flint can’t stand him. But I don’t get paid obviously.”

“He must _really_ hate that Dufresne guy if he’s giving you stuff his own TA should be doing.”

John shrugged.

“And, on a more urgent note, when do we celebrate my non-expulsion?”

 

-

 

The first email he received from Flint after that day made him choke in panic – it took him a minute, and actually _reading_ the mail, to remember this was his new normal and not a sign that the man was about to destroy his life.

The mail read that he had to meet with Dufresne on Wednesday afternoon, so the TA could brief him on what Flint was waiting for exactly.

 

-

 

“Try to be charming, not cocky. And smile, but not your usual shit-eating grin. Just do it like normal people do.” Max briefed him, leading by provide an example of a perfectly measured and amenable smile.

“Oh my God, does it really matter how I behave with his TA?” John sighed, exasperated.

“I don’t understand how you can be so receptive in reading and understanding social and human interactions in so many other instances and yet still lack any form of basic understanding of how shit works in an academic department.”

“How ‘bout because social dynamics in closed-off and somehow elitist circles are something you cannot learn but that you are educated into?”

“ _I_ learned.”

“You’re _you_.” He answered as she was closing off the door of _The Walrus_ , checking twice to see if it was properly locked.

“And you’ll learn.” She insisted as they started making their way back to the dorm.

“I’m getting outta here pretty soon.” John referenced his graduation. If all went well, of course, in a year.

“I know. But I’m not sure Flint’s gonna let you go through your semester without learning to read human interactions in his department, whether you want it or not.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, before it was Max’s turn to say:

“I’m gonna need you to do me a favour, by the way.”

Those were not words John was used to coming from Max. She never asked for anything, from anyone (Eleanor had been the only exception, and he only considered it as a confirmation of the rule). The most she’d probably ever asked of him was to bring her a book from the library back to the dorm when she was sick once. Even when she had needed someone more desperately than anyone could ever want to need support, she had refused to ask – but he stopped himself from following that line of thought. They did not talk about that anymore. For that matter, they did not _think_ about that anymore.

“You know I can’t say “no” to you.”

“You might want to wait ‘til I explain?” John’s curiosity was piked and she resumed: “Eleanor’s father is holding a birthday party for her, kind of a fancy reception, at their home downtown, y’know the one? Yeah, I used to go when he wasn’t there. And she invited me and… you know, I cannot _not_ go? She knows I have no valid excuse except trying to avoid her if I dodge it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the feeling. What does it have to do with me?”

“Emotional support?” Max ventured.

Every time John thought he had stopped getting surprised at how badly Eleanor had broken Max’s heart, life reminded him.

“Why don’t you take Anne? It would be _so_ cool to see Eleanor’s face.”

“C’mon, with the whole bunch of Conservative assholes that she counts as family there?”

“Oh, right. Fair point.”

“So?”

“I can’t say I’m overtly enthusiastic at the prospect, but I’d say that coming with you is within the range of my empathy and what I’m ready to sacrifice for your sake.”

She laughed at that.

“And then we go get super wasted, right?” He still checked.

 

-

 

John had seen Dufresne at the beginning of each of the classes so far, counting students and distributing copies of some reading materials when needed, and his only thought had been pity for how much discomfort he had seemed to experience at mere idea of _existing_.

Flint’s contempt for the world was rooted in a somehow understandable and very immediate feeling of superiority, which translated into an appearance of arrogance – Dufresne just looked like an asshole.

Dufresne checked John out from head to toe when John entered his office – which he shared with five other TAs of the Department of History – and the judgement he finally cast was immediately known in how quickly his eyebrows creased.

“Do you know how to use a copier?” Dufresne asked without further ado.

 _This is gonna be so fun_ , John thought as he conjured the most artificial smile of his entire life.

 

-

 

As he was exiting Flint’s class on how many of the philosophical ideas of French Enlightenment had transpired into the arts, he saw Flint gesturing him to wait a second. Billy had not missed the movement and threw a worried look his way but John was already approaching the Professor’s desk.

“M. Silver.” They had not talked ever since Flint had told him he’d see him expelled and John felt – rightfully – on uncertain footing.

“Sir.” He must’ve probably looked like a madman, alternating between his shit-eating grin and the memory of Max chastising him for looking like a cocky moron when he did it.

“How did your afternoon with M. Dufresne go yesterday?”

Sometimes, Flint was incredibly easy to decipher. When he had been angry, John had been able to somehow follow his train of thoughts, even anticipating where things were to go from one remark to another. But the rest of the time, the man was a fucking blank page, like now. He could be about to rip John’s throat, and John wouldn’t have been able to foresee it. Or the opposite. Who the fuck knew? Maybe he was about to crack a smile.

 _Honesty_ , Featherstone had demanded from him. _If you fuck up, you just say so, alright? Professor Flint does not ask for more than just basic honesty_.

“I believe it went well. Under the circumstances.” John finally ventured as an answer, sticking to the honest truth, translated in words that would be diplomatic enough.

Flint stared at him for a few moments, and said nothing before closing his bag.

“M. Dufresne doesn’t like you.” Flint casually informed him as he put on his scarf.

It was a very ridiculous emerald-green wool scarf, with irregular hand-made stitches. Clearly a gift from someone not so good at stitching. And yet Flint wore it. John had noticed a long time ago that Flint had neither a wedding nor an engagement ring. Probably a girlfriend then, or a boyfriend – he had no idea. Or a family member.

“I unfortunately cannot say that the feeling is not mutual.” That was an honest answer, right?

And then, to John’s utmost delight, Flint smiled at that.

“Well, it appears that you and I might have managed to find common ground.” Flint was making his way to the door, John on his heels. He switched off the lights and closed the door while John stood expectantly in the hallway, unsure if the conversation was over. When Flint turned around, he seemed almost surprised to find him still standing there. Sometimes, John really hated having to socially interact with people, especially when _people_ were that man.

“Well, have a nice day, M. Silver.” Flint stared him down, but in a non-threatening way, for a change.

John took that as his cue for leaving the awkwardness of the moment and turned around while mumbling a _yeah, you too_ under his breath. A weird silence followed, only broken by _his_ footsteps, before Flint’s were finally heard. Had the man stared at him leaving?

He had probably just been checking his phone, or something, John thought.

 

-

 

It had only been a week since he’d found Gates and Flint engrossed in a discussion at the counter of _The Walrus_ and yet it felt like decades. At least, he was still there. He wondered how Gates and Flint knew each other. Flint had probably always been a regular client, now that he thought about it, but John hadn’t noticed Flint before he got stuck in his class. John found it hard to imagine now, not noticing someone like Flint.

Joji had left him in charge for a moment of the side dishes while he took care of the fries and Joshua was grilling the meat. From where he was, he was closer to where the waiters gave the orders and retrieved them, almost directly behind the counter. Consequently, he did not miss Flint sitting at the spot where he’d chastised him about his salt-free fries, a lifetime ago.

Max was the one who took his order without a word and she immediately went to Silver, a raised eyebrow, in a “seen who’s there?” way.

“He specified to specify _no salt_ on the fries.” She told him in a low voice. “Is it a code for something?” She teased.

“No, he really doesn’t eat salt with his fries. Underline it, Joji will get the memo, that’s none of my business today.”

Staring at what was in front of him, his thoughts went back to the ludicrous idea of eating anything without salt – was Flint old enough to be watching for his blood pressure? Flint looked like a weary man, sure, not like an old one. Actually, if John had been asked to venture a guess, he’d have said the man was younger than he looked. Early forties, at most.

When Joji gave him Flint’s plate, he consequently took a few more seconds to arrange it – putting unmixed salad on it, seasoned only with olive oil, and he was very careful to add the salt in a very identifiable corner, not mixed with the rest. Who knew, blood pressure could be hereditary.

He gave the plate to Max without looking at her, and gave no thought to what he’d done until the end of his shift.

 

-

 

“Oh my _fucking_ God, John! what is it with you and your capacity to trade trouble for even fucking bigger trouble?!” Max almost jumped on him the moment they were out of ear-shot of _The Walrus_.

Joji, a few step ahead of them, turned around at how high-pitched Max’s voice had been.

“What are you talking about?” John was kind of seeing where this was ahead, but his defence was pretty solid.

“I _fucking_ forbid you to play dumb with me. You took the salt _off_ his fucking salad!”

“You told me to make an effort! Plus, he doesn’t know it was me.” Realizing he had just contradicted himself, he quickly added: “What does it matter?”

“It means you’re just as insane as he is. And I cannot believe I did not see it coming. You have such gigantic abandonment issues, and he’s hot, and he’s charismatic – oh my God, I remember now you talked about that so much in the beginning! - and you have no idea how basic affection work so _of course_ you’re gonna be attracted to people who behave like assholes to you.”

“You know I hate it when you psychoanalyse me like that.”

“Because I’m like you and I’m right.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m always right, John, you know that.” She was laughing, in a way John found both endearing and highly, highly dangerous. “You know that!”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, infinite thank yous to the one and only who manages to read and re-read and give me her opinion on this story, my Ongi.

* * *

 

 " _There is no moral precept that does not have something inconvenient about it._ " - Diderot.

* * *

 

John hadn’t planned on getting involved in a fistfight with a bunch of dead drunk fratboys in lieu of his Saturday night afterparty. Actually, John never planned on getting into fistfights with _anyone_ , really. His fight or flight response was a non-question for him, given he always picked _flight_ – and he considered people who reacted otherwise to be dangerous fools, with whom one should not associate, if only out of self-preservation. He knew Billy tended to fall short in that area – but he was Billy, and John forgave mostly everything to Billy.

Except for _this_ time, for he now had a broken nose, a ruined shirt, and all they’d managed to get out of the whole endeavour was Logan getting laid.

“Your nose’s not broken.” Max corrected him.

“You’re an Economics major, not a fucking doctor. How would you _know_?”

“I checked in at the school of life, once or twice. Y’know, like you. You must’ve gotten punched so much given your life, how can you still be such a whining bitch about it?”

“Well, maybe it’s _because_ I got punched so much that I do not care to replicate the experience now that I have a say in the matter.” He elaborated as she cleaned his face.

“See, you still can’t shut the fuck up. You’re fine.”

He grunted, but did not move, letting her do whatever she was doing, even though it hurt.

“You’ll definitely stand out at Eleanor’s party though.” He could not tell if she was being sarcastic or not.

 

-

 

He had been in the photocopying room in the basement of the College of History for less than twenty minutes and he was already way out of his mind with boredom. _Of course_ , Dufresnes had left him with everything that anyone wouldn’t want to do – _ever_.

The place would make a sane man go insane, or, at least, develop a severe case of claustrophobia. There were three photocopiers, no fucking windows, and he’d read the instruction for using the machines at least five times. He would have read the ones regarding how to use the water fountain if there had been some. As it was, there weren’t any.

He considered resuming his reading of Voltaire’s complete works vol. 1, or checking his phone, but he did not want to work and his phone was a useless wreck he did not have enough money to replace.

He had finally decided on resuming his book, as the third batch of papers got copied. It went beyond his comprehension how useless and wasteful it was to print everything when it all could be found online.

“I’m glad to know you have found ways to not let Dufresne kill you with boredom.”

John startled at the sound of Flint’s voice. He hadn’t heard him coming in.

“Though I envisioned this as a punishment of sort, I can admit that eternal boredom might be a bit too much, even for what you did.”

Flint didn’t have classes that day. He was in his casual wear, jeans and his now familiar grey sweater, which John found incredibly unfortunate – grey did not go well with his hair.

John had several very sarcastic remarks ready but he’d somehow managed to improve his sense of self-preservation around Flint and remained silent, though he chuckled politely, given Flint had probably tried to be funny. He then went back to his book, though of course he could register none of what he was reading as long as his Professor was there.

He heard shuffling over the sound of his photocopier continuing its job and raised his head in time to see Flint looking at him, bag on his shoulder and ready to go, a bunch of papers in his arms. Flint’s eyebrow was perspicuously raised.

“I do hope you did not manage to get this done to you while on campus ground.”

Silver did not understand at first, looking puzzled for a second, before he remembered the carnage his face must’ve looked like. As a matter of fact, it had happened on campus ground.

“Of course not, I’m not trying to get expelled.” John smiled back.

There was no point in trying to hide the stupidity of his repartee, nor the fact that it somehow clearly acknowledged what Flint had accused him of in the first place.

“Could have fooled me.” Flint answered, and John swore he saw him smile – _for real_ – as he left.

 

-

 

Max had taken it upon herself to fix his hair before they went to Eleanor’s. She’d bargained until he agreed to let her make two little braids in the back. It probably wouldn’t get noticed and it seemed to help her deal with her apprehension. Max looking stressed was such an unusual and discomforting sight he was almost trapped in the feeling too.

“Betsy is sick.” He told her, trying to make her get out of her thoughts.

“Poor cat. She’s not that old, is she?”

“Nah. Randall’s senile before his age, though.”

“He’s always been that way?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. I know close to nothing about him. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that social services let him get a seventeen year-old boy back then.”

“Who knows.”

Silver grunted his approval to that last addition to the conversation. She was almost done with his hair and once she was finished, they were to get on their way.

“You know you’re not gonna get to do that whenever you’re feeling fidgety?” He warned her as they were in the elevator of the dormitory.

“C’mon, it suits you. And congrats on your pants, your ass looks fantastic.”

“I took Jacob’s. Have nothing fancy enough myself. And you look good too.”

She had settled for a nice turquoise cocktail dress, long-sleeved and loosely-fitted. She must’ve borrowed it too, for he knew her garde-robe and this one definitely wasn’t hers.

“Yeah, for all the good it’s gonna do.”

He let the subject go unanswered, seeing her thoughts go back to Eleanor. The evening was going to be endless, he grunted internally.

 

-

 

 

Obviously, Eleanor’s house looked like a freaking mansion. What would have been the point, otherwise? There were lots of people, most of them looking very pretty, very rich, and very insufferable. Everyone was dressed in white, and John was sure they were calling the whole thing a _goûter_.

He would have complained if he’d cared, but as it was he just couldn’t wait to bitch in Eleanor’s face, get drunk on any expensive alcohol these people drank in the afternoon, and then drag Max away as quickly as possible.

To his surprise, he knew some faces; but, well, Eleanor had been their senior of only three years, which meant he’d seen a lot of her friends around campus for at least some time, back when he’d first come to Underhill. Much less to his surprise, there was no one he wanted to talk to.

Max was plastered to his arm, and they both made their way through the marble floored hallways, up to the reception room, vast enough that there were at least ten chandeliers lining the ceiling. John did not feel comfortable in those kind of environments – where everything shone and spoke of too much wealth in too little a space. He could not even consider it hideous, and that was the worst part.

“We’re really not staying long, are we?” He asked Max for the hundredth time.

She was unwell, her eyes darting from everything to everyone. She had become weary of crowds, of places she could not control. And this place must have brought back memories to her. She hadn’t even heard him, and her grip on his arm was firmer than it had to.

He picked a wine glass and gave her one in silence, noticing the appreciative glance the waiter gave him in passing, but forgetting almost immediately about it. He wasn’t a big fan of social gatherings, but that kind was the worst – nothing to do, nowhere to go, and nothing interesting to talk about. It was amazing people voluntarily subjected themselves to such forms of socialization and dared to call it “leisure”.

They were strolling slowly through the reception room, John attempting to humour Max with stupid descriptions of the paintings on the walls, when he heard someone sneering.

“Oh, Max. I should have assumed you would be stuck here too.”

The man who had just talked to Max immediately garnered John’s sympathy – his face spoke volume about how desperate he was _not be here_. And he was very obviously way ahead of them regarding his alcohol consumption.

“Oh, Mr. Rackham. I couldn’t miss Eleanor’s birthday.”

“Please, call me Jack. We’re not in class.”

John raised a perplexed eyebrow at that suggestion but withheld any comment he might have wanted to make. The words were flirtatious – the tone was everything but. Max had said something about Anne dating Jack but had shut down about any further enquiry when he’d tried his luck in getting to understand the tangling mess she was getting herself into. Well, if she wanted Jack to not hate her for sleeping with his girlfriend, he was not going to blame her for keeping things as quiet as possible.

John had lost track of what they had been saying and only paid attention again when Jack volunteered an explanation as to his presence.

“Well, Eleanor’s father is on the administrative board of the school. A lot of us actually have to show up when he invites us to something, to look for funds for our departments, many donors around here – and by us, I mean professors. Though I usually attach way too much sentimentality to that word to have it define the servile situation in which I find myself at the moment.”

John and Max both hid their smiles.

“And this young man is…?” Jack enquired, looking at John.

“John Silver. College of History.” He introduced himself.

“Oh. Your name rings a bell. Did you anger James Flint or Charles Vane at one point or another of your life?” John’s expression of surprise was answer enough for Jack Rackham. “Never anger either of them again. Friend’s advice. Oh, speaking of the devil...”

John’s heart leaped for the briefest of seconds as he followed Jack’s gaze – but it was only Vane. Though the relief was brief, for he now found himself in the most awkward of situations, and, if Max’s grip suddenly tightening on his arm was any indication, a potentially very uncomfortable one.

“Mr. Silver. I was not aware you were a friend of Eleanor’s.” Vane greeted him.

John would be forever impressed at the balls this man had for referencing him fucking a student so openly. It was not direct – but they’d never hidden it. Not like how Eleanor had hidden Max from everything and everyone for almost three years.

“I’m just Max’s plus one.”

He prayed to every possible entity he knew that somehow Jack Rackham would find something to talk about, because Max was certainly not going to provide any exit door for them to walk through judging by how tense she was. Well, why wait for Jack? He could just take Max, excuse them, and resume their pointless strolling. It was not like Rackham or Vane would mind much – probably the opposite.

But he’d been too slow in thinking about escaping.

“Oh, James. Even you could not escape this invitation, I see.” Jack greeted someone who was right behind John.

John turned around to find Flint staring at their little gathering. He looked stunning in a white shirt and black pants, and, without his usual ponytail, a few locks of hair were falling around his face and on his forehead. John finally realized that him standing where he was instead of broadening their improbably circle was growing awkward. He took two steps back, taking Max with him, and Flint moved to his side.

“Guthrie took great care of reminding me yesterday that I had close to no funds for next year’s projects.” Flint sneered, and was met by dishevelled expression on the parts of both Rackham and Vane. God, did it look like they were enjoying themselves.

It was growing more and more acceptable for him and Max to just excuse themselves. Actually, he thought that the three teachers must have been expecting it.

But, once again, that would have been too easy.

“What a lovely reunion. Are you all enjoying yourselves as much as I am?” Judging by how little she was trying to conceal the tinge of anger in her tone, Eleanor had also deemed alcohol the best way of going through her birthday celebration. She had en empty glass in her hand, a hairdo so elaborate she had probably had to sit still the whole morning for it to get made, and she looked as uncomfortable in her pretty cocktail dress and heavy pearls as she probably felt.

“Happy birthday, Eleanor! All the best.” Jack said, in a tone so jovial, so counter to every feeling that was transpiring in their circle, it almost made John laugh out loud. _God, did no one actually want to be here?_

“Yeah, the fucking best to you too, Jack. James, nice to see you there.” She pointedly ignored Vane and John for a second before turning her attention to Max. “Grandma asked about you earlier, do you want to go see her? She’s kept the fondest memory of you.” Her tone was bitter and clearly imbibed, and Max cast an unreadable glance John’s way as she let go of his arm and followed Eleanor after a very cordial “nice meeting you” thrown Vane and Flint’s way.

He felt naked now that she was gone. But now he could excuse himself without seeming rude with a carefully constructed sentence – which he, of course, never got to utter.

“I was not aware you were a friend of Eleanor’s.” James aborted his attempt at escape. He was looking at him from above the rim of his glass of wine, throwing the kind of glances John had taken to being afraid of since he grew acquainted with them. Being at the receiving end of that man’s curiosity felt uncomfortable, in more ways than one, and in more ways than he wanted to think about.

“I’m just a friend of Max’s, actually.” He corrected, pointing in the direction the women had gone. “Hum, Max is the girl who -.”

“Oh, is this the same Max Teach talks about so much?” Flint asked Jack, who nodded appreciatively. “Don’t tell her that,” he said to John, “but we’ve never heard Edward tell so many good things about a single student in all the years we’ve known him.”

John’s contentment and swell of pride were not his to feel – but he felt them nonetheless. She’d be beyond thrilled to heart that. And maybe that’ll help her forget about the shitty day and Grandma Guthrie.

“Yeah, talking about Teach, that bastard is the only one who managed not to show up. Even fucking Hornigold is there.” Jack added. He sneaked a weary glance John’s way as the last words left his mouth, trying to see if Hornigold could have been John’s teacher at one point or another, or maybe wondering if he should be worried of talking like that in front of a student. He seemed to finally decide that neither points mattered as he continued: “How do we get out of here by the way?”

“With our cars, once we’ve managed to make small talk with every person of importance that is here. I did not know your department was so flushed with funds you could stop kissing other peoples’ asses.” Vane was the one to answer. He had said very little, and John wondered if he was drunk too. He would not have liked to be treated the way Eleanor had treated him. Hell, even Max had gotten more consideration.

“Well, economics manage to find money more easily than history actually. But I hear your point, and I approve it.”

John did not have the time to realize what was happening as Vane and Rackham were suddenly leaving and he found himself alone with Flint. Now, he _could_ excuse himself, right?

“I think I’m -.” He gestured in the general direction of _anywhere but here_.

Flint’s reaction surprised him, as he smirked, clearly mocking.

“I doubt there are many places you have to be right now.”

John’s nervousness was subdued by the fact that Flint looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen him – except when they had exchanged something resembling a conversation in the photocopying room, last week. Flint seemed curious, and looked at him with interest. His demeanour was not that of someone who was stuck in an uncomfortable exchange, though John’s must have been.

“And I wanted to let you know that I don’t have blood pressure. Though I appreciate your concern, I just like my fries without salt.” Flint added.

“You’re insane then.” The words escaped before John could think better of it. For a split second, he thought Flint was going to reprimand him, or get angry, but he just laughed. So this was really a normal conversation?

“Not everyone has the same tastes. Oh, and your face looks better.”

John felt his cheeks flush before he could think better of it and remember that Flint was simply referencing his black eye and the patch on his nose.

“Yeah, Max’s a wonderful nurse.” John gave as way of an explanation.

Flint cast him a curious glance – many people did when he started talking about Max with sparks in his eyes, as if she were the moon and the stars combined.

“Teach rarely expresses his admiration for one of his students the way he does with her.”

John beamed again, though he had no idea why Flint was volunteering so much information. But he was not going to complain. Flint took another sip of his glass, which was now empty. “I think I’ll go join the others. I may not like Dufresne that much, but I still need to find money for his thesis.”

John frowned.

“Why did you take him if you like him so little?”

“Temporary lapse of judgement.”

John laughed. Flint’s stare was weirdly insistent for a few moments, but he then bid him goodbye quietly and John was left to his own devices.

 

-

 

He strolled through the place pretty lost for a while, exchanging one or two words with some of Eleanor’s friends that he should have known. After a while, and probably too many drinks, he remembered that he had a pack of cigarettes in his jacket. Going out for a smoke would at least give him something to do.

Once in the parking (the mansion had a fucking parking, yes), he ended up chain-smoking. He’d calculated that a pack of cigarettes would probably take less of his life-estimate than staying inside that place a second longer. He had left Max a message, telling her to call him when she could. He was growing worried that drama was unfolding somewhere and he was not there to stand between Eleanor and Max.

“Oh, John.” He turned around to find Eme lighting a cigarette herself. Probably the only one of Eleanor’s friends that he knew. “You’re here with Max?”

“Yup. But I lost her a little while back and got stuck trying to small talk with my teachers. My Saturday’s going _so_ great.”

“Yeah, I saw her with Eleanor and Vane. They were all looking rather… hum. It was not going well.”

John felt a little bit of tension creep at him at the mental image and checked his phone again, but there was still nothing from Max. Eme was still staring at him, not saying anything more.

“Maybe you could call her?” She volunteered finally, taking another drag of her cigarette, looking at him like she thought he really could use a notice for life. She had a point, though.

Max picked up after the first ring.

“Silver, I’m out, near the -.” But she stopped herself, and John was pretty sure she was either crying or about to.

“What? Driveway?” He volunteered, getting up and ready to go. Of course this was going to end up in tears and drama. Eleanor was involved, after all.

“No, after that. The road. Where we came from.” She hang up and he looked at Eme while pocketing his phone.

“Thanks.” He did not wait for he reaction before sprinting away.

He went by the main gate of the mansion and spotted Max further down the road, Vane next to her. He sped up, suddenly worried. Vane was apparently yelling and Max was yelling back.

“You can’t drive, and screaming at me ain’t gonna change that.” Max was saying.

John stood right next to her, protectively extending an arm to block Vane from trying to get his car keys back from where she was keeping them.

“Give me my keys, now.” But even Vane’s natural poise could not stand the amount of alcohol he’d apparently had to drink to get through the evening. His speech was slurred and John’s hand was keeping him away from Max as much as it was stopping him from tripping on his own foot.

“I called Jack, he’ll be here in a second. Now I suggest you sit, or you consider throwing up before you get in the car.”

John did not have time to ask Max why on Earth she’d have Jack’s phone number.

“Fuck Jack.” Was all Vane answered, as he finally fell to the floor. John took that as his cue to leave Max’s side and go and try to help the poor man. “And fuck you too.” Vane pushed him away.

John threw a glance Max’s way, but, right on cue, Rackham appeared down the sidewalk, running their way.

“I got this. God, what happened?”

“Eleanor.” Max answered.

Jack rolled his eyes to the heavens and back. They were all done with this whole mess.

“And Rogers.” Vane grunted.

Jack sighed very audibly but said nothing. “Please tell me he did not punch anyone?” He asked Max.

“Nah. I got him out before he could think about it.”

“Okay. My car’s in the parking. Anyone of you two can bring it here without an accident while I make him throw up?”

Max pointed at John. Rackham considered him for two seconds before handing him his car keys.

“Black Audi. Old model. Plate number ends with 84. Near the main gate.”

John pocketed the keys and sprinted there.

 

-

 

By the time he was back with the car, Vane was clearly passed out. John parked the car, left the engine running and helped Rackham carry Vane on the back seat. As Jack seated himself behind the wheel, he rolled the passenger seat’s window down.

“You two stay here, I told James to come and get you back to the dorms.”

“We’re fine. There’s a bus -.” John interjected, but Rackham’s car was already down the road by the time he’d finished his sentence. He sighed heavily, turning around to face Max. “You okay?”

She shrugged, which he interpreted as okay enough to get some of his frustration out on her, even though he was supposed to know better:

“You really gotta get your shit together, or you’re going to end up like that. You know it, right?”

She didn’t say anything, walking for a few meters, her back to him. He knew she was crying, but still left her alone for a while, until she started sobbing and he could not stay away any longer. They were not good at physical contact but he clumsily tried to coax her into an awkward hug. She did not push him away, instead burying her head in the crook of his neck.

John heard a car stopping at their level and turned around to see Flint looking at them. However, instead of calling them out, he cut the engine and just waited, his eyes riveted at the road ahead. John waited until Max stopped sobbing to gently guide her to the back-seat.

John sat in the passenger seat, and buckled his seatbelt without looking at Flint. They all remained silent and not a sound was to be heard until Flint turned the radio on. The drive was a pretty long one, the campus being at the other side of the city, but nothing was said.

John took the time to notice that Flint drove quite carefully, though he could not have told if it was because he had passengers or if it was his natural way. The car was impersonal, smelling faintly of leather and lavender. It wasn’t new, but couldn’t have been very old. All in all, it told him nothing about its owner, to John’s regret.

 

-

 

“Which building?” Flint asked as they neared the dormitories.

“1004. Left, left, and right.”

They drove through the little secondary roads John usually walked, until they arrived in front of their place. It was 6pm on a Saturday, but it was still cold, and not a lot of people were going in or out.

The second Flint stopped the car, Max opened the door, with a faint “Thank you very much”, and left, leaving John alone. He still had his seatbelt on, and was crouched on his seat, almost sleepy and enjoying tremendously the warmth that he knew he’d have to forfeit once outside.

“This was a more eventful Saturday than I had anticipated.” Flint said. Max’s exit had taken a weight off of the car.

“Tell me about it.”

John was staring at Flint, who was staring back. They were both probably a little bit tipsy, even though Flint’s driving had been irreproachable.

“Is your friend going to be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Max’s tougher than anyone I’ve ever known.” It was a strangely personal way of saying things, but the question had been framed in just the same personal way.

Flint nodded, still looking at him very intently. John was growing used to that stare directed at him, though he was still unable to interpret it in any way.

“Thank you for taking us back. It would have taken ages to go home in public transport.” He said once more.

He wanted very much to stay where he was, but knew that it was growing more and more visible where his interest might have been lying.

“You’re welcome. Did you get to see how Charles was when Jack took him? Jack wouldn’t tell me.”

“Not good.”

Flint nodded in understanding.

John buttoned his jacket’s collar, ready to go. But Flint seemed just as eager as he was to have them each go their own ways – meaning not at all.

“I’ll see you Monday then.” John finally had to say, unable to bear the heavy silence any longer.

Flint took a few moments to answer.

“Yes. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

As John walked from the car to the dorm, all he could think about was why he wasn’t hearing the car go – until he reached the door and he finally heard its engine roaring. He turned around, only to see it disappearing further down the road.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get under way next chapter...


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merciiiiiii Ongi <3
> 
> Some, j'espère que le bisou est ~littéralement~ à la hauteur de tes rêves !

* * *

 

 

 _"I have pushed virtue to outright brutality."_ \- Racine.

 

* * *

 

 

John left Max alone for the rest of the weekend, only asking her roommate Charlotte if she was eating, or if she was just more generally looking okay. Charlotte told him that Idelle was taking care of everything, and John was happy to leave it at that.

 

-

 

He finally saw her Sunday afternoon, and did not say anything about the party. Neither did Max, and they ended up chit chatting about Logan and Charlotte, until she got car keys out of her pocket.

“You have class with Vane right?”

“Gosh, why did he not come back and get those?” John said.

“ _How_ would he come back?”

“Dunno. But I don’t have class with him until Wednesday. You have class with Rackham first, right?”

“Only Tuesday. Maybe Flint then? You have class with him Monday right?”

“I can’t just give him Vane’s car keys like that. Actually, I can’t even give Vane his car keys like that.”

“But don’t you see Flint because of the TA thing?”

John thought it over. He was on photocopying duty Monday afternoon, so maybe they’d come across? They decided it was best he was the one to keep them, in case he’d meet either one of them in the hallways.

 

-

 

He was in the photocopying room, printing even more stuff for Dufresnes. He was not reading, lost in thought instead, and Flint took him by surprise again.

“Hello, Mr. Silver.”

John was almost surprised not to hear him use his given name. After the mess the weekend had been, it almost felt like they were friends now.

“Oh, Sir. I was hoping to see you.”

Flint seemed taken aback by the remark, as he set his bag on a small table in the corner and got two books out, staring intently at John.

“Yes?”

John stood from the chair he’d brought from a classroom and made his way towards his teacher. Flint’s gaze followed him very appreciatively, only consolidating the very heavy feeling of recklessness that was seated at the back of his mind. Once close enough, he got the keys out of his pocket. It felt easier to get into the man’s personal space after the weekend.

“Mr. Vane’s car keys. If you could give them back to him.”

“Oh God… his car’s still in the Guthries’ parking?”

That was not an aspect of things John had considered. But that was none of his business now. He moved another small step into Flint’s personal space, expecting him to get away, but Flint did not move, still gratifying him with his usual stare. He dangled the keys as a reminder of why he was there. After a few seconds of endless silence, Flint finally took the keys, their fingers slightly brushing.

John’s recklessness took that as an invitation to continue whatever game it was he was playing.

“I had not realized you and Max had also stopped him from driving. I should have been the one thanking you Saturday.” Flint added.

John smiled. They were almost close enough for him to feel Flint’s breath.

“That was all Max.” He clarified.

“Thank you anyway.”

John tilted his head to the side. If Flint wasn’t having the same thoughts John was having right now, he’d have taken several steps back. But he hadn’t, and did not seem to be about to. John allowed his stare to fall to Flint’s lips, and almost immediately felt a hand fall flat at the front of his shirt, gently but firmly keeping him at arm’s length.

“This is already much more power than I’m willing to give anyone over me; least of all a student.” Flint said, his stare unforgiving and his mouth now a thin line of discontent. But he was not moving away.

John smiled cockily.

“So what? Dufresnes’s the only one who gets to benefit from your temporary lapses of judgement? I’d call that favouritism if I used the same metric by which you measure cheating.”

Flint smiled – a feral smile, against which Flint’s face seemed to be fighting, that told John everything he needed to know about what his teacher actually liked about him. _This_.

The hand on his chest had turned into a tight grip on his shirt, but when John put his own hand on Flint’s hip and draw him closer, there was no resistance. Flint’s lips were within reach and he could hear nothing but the abhorrent and insufferable sound of the machines. He could have sworn his professor was the one who closed the last gap that separated them – but, who cared?

He was awarded a few seconds of teeth and tongue clashing hungrily before Flint’s grip on his shirt suddenly tightened again and sent John one step back. John could still feel the ghost sensation of Flint’s lips, and the hand that had been on his teacher’s hip was hanging in the air. Disoriented, he stared disbelievingly at Flint.

“ _What_?”

Flint stepped back, letting go of John’s shirt.

“This is never happening again.” He growled, his demeanour totally altered.

Though everything about him had become incredibly menacing, John felt euphoric enough to answer cockily.

“Well, once was enough for me if I really wanted to get something I could get you expelled with, so how about -.”

John had no time to think before Flint was suddenly back way too close – but this time the grip on his shirt was unmistakably menacing and Flint’s entire posture was threatening him, his teeth almost bared.

“You little piece of -.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” John interrupted, hands raised around his head. “It was a joke. _I_ don’t get off on threatening people with expulsion. Let go.” But Flint did not let go, and John could very easily discern a hint of panic hinging beneath all the anger. Damn him and his shitty sense of humour. “Really, it was a fucking _joke_. Sorry. I apologize, dearly. Okay?”

Flint loosened his grip but his tic, the one that clearly indicated how angry he was, was still making his cheek twitch.

“Okay?” John insisted.

He brought his hand and covered Flint’s fist with it, trying to disentangle his grip and quiet the situation. Flint did not let go and John could only guess that he was internally panicking. John felt like the man was angrier with himself than he was with John – which brought him only marginal relief.

“Listen to me. This kind of thing,” John gestured at the space between them, “is supposed to be for fun. No point if you choke me. I apologize again for my profoundly inadequate comment. Can you stop freaking out now?”

Flint snapped out of it then, letting go of John’s shirt, and bringing both his hands back to his side. He was breathing heavily – only John wished it was because their make up session had lasted longer, and not because he was suddenly terrified at the thought that John was going to make him lose his job.

“I thought...” John began, once he felt like things were less tense.

“You have nothing to think.” Flint interrupted, voice hoarse. “I do have hope you will not try to hold this against me -.”

“For fuck’s sake, it was a joke! The worst one of my life apparently, but one nonetheless.” John rubbed his neck, clearly uncomfortable. The situation had gone awry – Flint had not rejected _him_ per se, but… “I thought I had let my opportunity pass by in the car, Saturday, that’s it. Nothing more.”

Flint closed his eyes and inhaled once, twice. When he opened them again, he looked finally calm, and John tried for a smile that his self-preservation instinct stopped before it reached his lips. He was sorely missing the Flint of Saturday who’d smiled and exchanged friendly banter before eating him whole simply with his eyes.

Flint’s stare fell to John’s hands, and John realized he’d been fidgeting.

When Flint gave his attention back to John, he seemed resolute.

“This never happened.”

John swallowed.

“Listen, I’m not…” John hadn’t thought this through – he never thought those kind of things through. He was a creature of want, who knew only that life is way too short, and opportunities way too easily missed. “When I see an opportunity, I go for it. Okay? There was nothing more to what happened than just… that. No need for you to freak out over it.” And because his self-esteem was starting to foresee all the ways in which Flint was going to step all over it, he flashed a fake grin and added: “And if I misread the situation, my bad. This, indeed, never happened.”

He took three steps back, eager to be the first one to go if the question was now about who would jump the boat first.

Flint’s stare was back to unreadable, and John was trying to give a sterner look to his own features, though he was sure he was failing. And then his professor turned around, grabbing his bag and leaving without another word.

 _Fuck_.

 

-

 

“Did you give Vane his keys back?” Max asked.

They were in the personnel’s room at _The Walrus_ getting ready for their Tuesday night shifts. John was glad he was turning his back to her. He did not trust himself to keep his face composed enough for his answer.

“I gave them to Flint.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad he’s not my teacher – I was such a wreck Saturday.”

“He doesn’t care.” The moment he said that, he regretted the personal way in which he had framed his words. She didn’t say anything, but he added nonetheless: “I mean, I doubt he does.”

Thankfully, Max was ready by then and left with a quiet “see ya then”, totally oblivious to John’s inner turmoil.

John wondered for a few moments if Flint was going to have the same awkward conversation with Vane as to how he’d gotten his colleague’s car keys. Or maybe that would just open the door to the two of them weighing the pros and cons of fooling around with students. Who knew – it wasn’t like John had proved that he was able to read Flint’s demeanour, thoughts, and apprehensions in any way.

He’d have felt happy and content with himself after their meeting in the photocopying room if it weren’t for the growing knot of apprehension in his stomach reminding him that Flint was a dangerous someone with heavy anger management issues. The more time went by, the more he found himself wondering how he could have thought that shamelessly kissing the teacher who had tried to expel him barely a month before could have been _fun_.

The most preposterous thought of all occurred to him whenever he remembered that Flint had been the one scared about the whole situation. As if John could do to him more damage than what Flint could – and already had – inflicted upon John’s life.

 

-

 

It was Vane who caught him off-guard, at the end of his Wednesday class, by gesturing to John to wait a little bit. Billy raised a conspicuous eyebrow when he saw that – but John chose not to dignify that with an answer.

“Yes, Sir?”

He could have easily lost any semblance of respect for the man after the state he’d seen him in during the weekend – except this was Charles Vane, and, really, there was nothing that could have truly taken off the aura he carried around him.

“Jack has been very insistent in reminding me that I ought to thank you, and Max. My memories are blurry at best, as you can imagine, so I am willing to take his word for it.”

John shrugged. It felt peculiar being thanked simply for behaving like a decent human being. He could almost get used to the feeling.

“Nothing anyone else wouldn’t have done in the same circumstances.”

“Can you extend my apologies to Max? I do believe I was an ass to her. I’ve always been like that with her, so she’ll probably just roll her eyes at you.”

John smiled. He knew close to nothing about the extent of their relationship, only that Max did not carry the man around fondly. It seemed that Vane had a more repentantoutlook on the situation.

“I’ll do that.”

 

-

 

“When did you develop such intimate relationships with our teachers?”

John choked on his food, staring at Billy with sauce on his chin.

“Beg your pardon?” He asked, his mouth still full.

“What? Like, you spend your time talking to Flint and Vane after the classes are over.”

John swallowed. He really had to keep his temper in check. He was pretty sure Flint would kill him if he ever found out that anything about _them_ had transpired. And the killing probably wouldn’t be painless.

“Yeah, I saw Vane at Eleanor’s birthday party Saturday, he was drunk, and Max stopped him from driving. So he told me to thank her, though he doesn’t seem to remember much.”

“Waouh, that’s a story I definitely want to hear about.”

“Yeah, ask Max. I just spent one of the worst Saturdays of my life, trying to stop everyone from going at each others’ throats.”

“ _That_ did not discourage me from wanting to hear the story, y’know.”

John rolled his eyes at Billy. The cafeteria was full and loud and he really wished he’d gone to _The Walrus_ catch some leftovers instead of following Billy there.

“Where’s Ben?” John asked, eager to change the subject. And he was genuinely curious – they rarely left each other’s side.

“I assume he’s jealous. I told him to have lunch with us but… I don’t know. Fit of jealousy. Whatever.”

“Possessive puppy, huh?” John teased him, only to find himself on the receiving end of a killing stare. “God, he doesn’t even know about us.” John shrugged. They’d been a thing for barely a month, almost three years ago, and Billy did not own to it. At all. Especially not in front of Ben, for reasons John did not care to ponder about too much.

“There’s no “us”.” Billy corrected him.

John raised a very sardonic eyebrow at him.

“Grow up, Billy.”

“Look who’s talking.”

They were on poor terms lately, but John did not have the energy to do anything about it – least of all think it through.

 

-

 

It was Thursday afternoon, and he’d pointedly avoided looking at Flint for the whole class that morning – a challenge, considering the man was the teacher. But his notes had taken all of his attention, and if he needed to look at the board, he did so while Flint was still writing with his back to the class. That brought other thoughts to his mind – but ones he could deal with more easily than Flint’s stare.

He’d stood up Dufresnes the day before when the TA had asked him to come to the administration floor and help him out with some stuff, arguing an imaginary shift at _The Walrus_ , or an imaginary sickness – he couldn’t even remember his lie. Maybe it would come back to bite him in the ass – but it was more than likely that Dufresnes would never dare tell Flint about all the stuff he asked John to do that he was most definitely not supposed to. But at least it gave John one more day to determine what tune he was supposed to dance to.

Leaving the class, he kept his eyes on the ground for as long as he could, but finally could not resist the temptation to look out for Flint, who was waiting near the door until everyone was out to lock it. John felt his breath hitch as they passed by each other, certain without being able to see it that Flint’s stare was probably on him.

Once down the hallway, he turned around, but there was no one left. He had suspended his thoughts on everything that had happened since Monday in the hopes that when he finally saw Flint some kind of revelation would befall him. But it had been a vain hope. The deeper realization was simply that there was nothing he could do.

It was a disquieting thought to realize that every last one of his encounter with Flint had not only left in a state of inner turmoil, but also in a situation where he had close to no control over any of the possible resulting outcomes.

 

-

 

He did not see Flint at _The Walrus_ , that Friday. He wasn’t seated at the counter, and no one asked for fries without salt.

It bothered John.

 

-

 

He went through the weekend wondering if he had not imagined the whole Monday encounter.

Max was distant, and he left her alone, always weary of being too insistent with her, which only made his dinners more lonely and anxious. It wasn’t like he would have talked to her about what was worrying him, but she was a soothing presence in his life, and the farther away they were from each other, the more he found himself missing her stern looks and cunning words.

He spent four hours at the gym both days of the weekend, challenging Jacob and Billy to more and more stupid records, just so he’d tire himself enough to fall asleep quietly at night.

As time went by without _anything_ happening, he found himself battling all the worst case scenarios his mind could not help but conjure. Endlessly, the conviction that Flint would backtrack and try to have him expelled would seat itself at the back of his mind – only for him to dismiss it each time on the grounds that mutual deterrence applied too neatly to the situation.

When Monday morning finally came around, he realized he’d become so weary, so full of apprehension, he could not wait to see Flint and remind himself that, for now, nothing was yet decided.

 

-

 

Class went by without an itch, their gazes not meeting once, and John finally managed to anchor himself back to a grounded reality where Flint did not look like he was going to go at his throat any minute.

John had thought that he would occupy himself with a book during the photocopying session of the afternoon, or maybe simply _not stay_ in the room while the machines functioned - unfortunately, his photocopier started spurting chewed paper almost the second he pressed the power button. He knew resistance would be futile, so he just waited until an error message appeared signalling a paper jam to start the battle.

He was nose deep inside the machine, trying to follow the instructions given on the screen to fix the problem, and he had already burned himself twice by inserting his hand where it was not supposed to go. So far, he considered himself lucky he hadn’t been doused in ink from head to toe.

“What are you doing?” A very familiar voice asked from behind him.

John startled, hitting his head on whatever compartment of the machine was open above him. Of course, he wasn’t going to escape Flint forever.

“ _Fuck_.” He swore loudly, as he tried to stand up once again, and hitting his head once again too.

“Stop moving, you moron.”

John heard shuffling above his head and finally understood Flint had folded the compartment against which his head had hit. He got back to his feet, head hurting, cheeks flushed from the heat of the machine, and definitely not happy about being called a moron.

“I’m not stupid but this thing requires a fucking Ph. D to use.” He spouted angrily.

To his inner surprise, when he finally looked at Flint, he found him harbouring the hint of a smile, an arm’s length away from him. John breathed once, twice, expectantly, willing himself to tread cautiously. He was not going to make the first step of anything today.

“May I?” Flint finally asked.

John did not understand until Flint gestured towards the machine. He took a step back to let his teacher take the place he had been sitting in. A few moments passed before Flint emerged from the corner, closed every compartment still open, and pressed the power button before coming to stand next to John.

They stared at the machine as it resumed its job without problem. John would have sighed contently had he been in any other situation, but found himself back in the clutches of his nervousness. Flint was much closer than required either by the circumstances, or the size of the room.

“What you said, Monday,” Flint began, “it’s true.”

John stared disbelievingly at the man for a few moment. What the fuck was he talking about now? Flint finally looked at him.

“Once was enough for you, if what you wanted was to make me pay for trying to have you expelled.”

“For the hundredth fucking time, it was _joke_.” John argued, his eyes rolling to the sky. God, that man was unbelievable.

“A joke or not, it’s true.” Flint insisted.

John sighed, accepting that this was indeed the direction the conversation was going. It wasn’t worse than any other of the thousand scenarios he’d run through his mind for the last seven days, surely, but it was still a conversation that irked him.

“Okay, it’s true. So what? I told you, I won’t hold this against you. That’s not why I did it.” John said.

“Why did you do it then?”

“Oh, come on. You’re not gonna make me spell this out for you, you’re not that stupid. If it’s not like… mutual or anything, let’s just get this over with.”

Flint’s face, under the very bright and very white lights of the room, looked too pale. There were shadows under his eyes and John seriously wondered if he’d made his professor loose sleep over the thought that he’d get him expelled. He almost apologized again, but refrained. There were limits to how much he was willing to step on his own dignity to escape a conversation he did not want to have.

“You make no sense.” Flint finally said.

“People are not here for you to make sense of them.” John answered, piqued despite himself. _People are not books_. He almost added. But his point had already come across and Flint’s features softened.

“You’re right.” But Flint did not move as he said that, and the nervousness in John’s chest suddenly turned to a more decisive thirst that Flint’s sudden focus on his lips was definitely not enough to quell.

He then felt more than he saw Flint’s hand make its way towards the side of his face, his thumb lightly brushing his cheek before any pretence of tenderness disappeared as their lips finally met. The urgency of the situation was not lost on John as Flint’s hand on his cheek turned into a more possessive grip on his neck, the warmth in his body swelling as Flint’s tongue passed his lips.

He could not have told when he found himself with one of the machines painfully stabbing his lower back, nor when it was accompanied by Flint’s hips pressing flush into his, overwhelming and almost as painful. When Flint’s mouth left his own to trail a series of open mouthed kisses along his jawline, John’s whimper sounded pitiful, even to his ears.

If he’d known earlier that once was enough to get _this_ into motion, he’d have thrown himself at his teacher way earlier.

“Is this okay?” Flint suddenly asked.

John’s hand was resting on his teacher’s hip, keeping them as close as they could possibly be given all the awkward angles. He blinked once, twice, having no idea what the question could have possible been about.

“Hum… yeah?” John finally said.

“That sounded neither convinced nor convincing.”

“Can you please just… shut up? Or… at least, talk less?” John sighed, exasperated.

With the way they were entwined, John figured he could smartass himself out of a conversation and just go back to the enjoyable part of the interaction. But Flint started laughing instead of resuming the kissing, and John was left flustered and feeling stupid.

“Do you ever express a behaviour that’s not batshit crazy, angry, or plain nonsensical?” John tried to entangle himself from Flint, but he Flint’s arms were keeping him firmly in place.

“I thought people weren’t supposed to make sense?” Flint sassed him.

“Yeah, true. But you’re on a league of your own regarding lunacy. Like...” John tried to gesture at the both of them, failed, but figured he’d gotten his point across anyway. “You were almost punching me last week when we were in the same position. I’d be curious to know what reshuffled the cards.”

Flint’s face was unreadable as seconds stretched without an answer. John finally gave up.

“Fine. I’ll deal with the lunacy. Though, if you could just avoid the physical aggression – not this kind, the other kind, you know, with the shirt-gripping and all – that would be greatly appreciated.”

A flash of something clearly expressing discomfort lit up Flint’s expression.

“I’m sorry about that part. It will not happen again.”

“Fine by me.” John acquiesced before flashing a grin that he willed to express his eagerness to resume what they had been doing.

John grabbed Flint’s collar to pull him at his level but scarcely managed to earn himself another kiss before Flint disentangled himself from him and took two steps back. The air was suddenly cold on John’s skin.

“I have a meeting.” Flint said, as way of explanation.

John inhaled heavily once, trying to regain some composure.

“You’re unbelievable.” John chuckled.

But Flint’s eyes were hungry and demanding, and there was no need for him to spell out how much he’d rather be here than elsewhere, even as he grabbed his bag under John’s grinning stare. After the door closed, John was left in the silence of the room to realize that the copy machine was once again paper jammed.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in uploading, this chapter was a bitch. Though, in the end, it's 50% longer than usual, so I hope that makes up for it. Considering taking the rating up a notch also.
> 
> Merci Ongi <3
> 
> @Some: regarde ce que tu me fais faire. Du ~smut. Bouark.

* * *

 “ _Desire increases when fulfillment is postponed._ ” - Pierre Corneille.

* * *

 

 

In the last week, John had arrived to several conclusions regarding the situation he had put himself into. First, Flint enjoyed physical intimacy with the devotion of a man who had been starved of it for a very long time. Second, Flint’s lunacy could be dealt with most efficiently using the grin Max had so often chastised him for. Third, Flint was in it for the danger of being caught almost as much as he was in it for the fun.

He had reached that last conclusion during their second encounter. Back then, John had insisted on trying to understand why the sudden reversal after the shirt-gripping episode, and faced with Flint’s total lack of answer, had teased him: “You just enjoy the thrill of fucking a student,” expecting a denial that never came. He finally realized aloud: “You wouldn’t _want_ it if it weren’t dangerous.”

His train of thought had been caught short by Flint’s hands gripping his ass and pressing their bodies together for a kiss so full of tongue John would have been ashamed had he been the one initiating it.

 

It was lunch break now, and the deserted hallways of the College of History had been a relief as he had made his way to Flint’s office, which they had decided to be a much better place to fool around than the copy room.

He now had his hand close to the waistband of his teacher’s pants, his teacher’s mouth on an area of his collarbone dangerously close to where his skin could be seen, and yet all he could think about was the damn door. Finally accepting defeat against the impulses of his monomaniac mind, he raised both hands to attract Flint’s attention.

Flint immediately stopped worrying his skin and stepped back, which made John sigh internally. They really had to discuss Flint’s handling of him like he was made of very fragile glass. But for that, they would have to discuss at all _,_ which was almost unheard of.

“Too fast?” Flint asked, weary.

“What? No,” John answered. They’d already been farther than that two times, how could the man still ask that kind of question? “The door. Is the door locked?”

Flint’s eyebrows creased and he was the one to make his way from the desk to his office door, testing the handle to assuage John’s fears.

“Happy?”

“Yeah, sorry. It was kinda distracting me.”

Flint shrugged and went back to his desk, upon which John was seated, and resumed the place he had previously occupied between John’s legs. This time, all of John’s attention could be devoted to unzipping his teacher’s pants, while said teacher had already resumed kissing him with a dedication John could only enjoy.

When he was finally done with Flint’s belt and zipper, he slid his hand under his underwear, gripping Flint’s cock. His teacher’s body stilled at the touch and it was John’s pleasure to bite at his lower lip as he started slowly stroking him. But Flint regained his senses fairly quickly, and managed to give John’s pants the same treatment his own had received.

They fumbled a little before setting themselves back into a comfortable position. A few moments later Flint started kneeling, and John’s breathing went from ragged to straight impossible.

“Do you have a condom?” Flint asked.

So far, given they had never used more than hands, the question had not arisen and John reviewed the content of his bag for a few seconds.

“I don’t think I do. Don’t you?”

“Why would I have condoms in my office?”

John shot him an “ _are you kidding me_ ” look and Flint sighed.

“You’re the college student. You’re the one who’s supposed to always have condoms.”

“Not to go to class, no, I don’t.”

John would have been disappointed at the sight of Flint standing back up following his answer, towering him again by a few inches, if Flint’s hand had not almost immediately resumed the place his mouth had been supposed to occupy.

 

-

 

_Where are you?_

Billy’s text had been sent during lunch hour, and John realized he’d forgotten to tell him and Gareth he would not be joining them.He was in the bathroom, cleaning his face, and wondering just how much he smelled of sex. By experience, he knew it was just an artificial feeling, but it did not stop him from being worried. He checked his pants and shirts for stains and found none. Washing his face once more, he doused some water on his hair to still it, and finally brought himself to tuck it with a hair band.

 _Sorry, had lunch at the dorms, had some leftovers left_. _See ya at the gym_.

 

-

 

He was back from his Tuesday night shift at the _Walrus_ , walking alone because Max had stayed behind for some girl talk with Idelle, when Randall called him. Randall never called him first, so it was with a hinge of panic that John answered.

“Yes?”

“Betsy’s at the vet. The fucking moron doesn’t know what’s wrong with her.”

John had more feelings for that damn cat than for many other people in his life and he felt a twinge of panic.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Told ya the fucker doesn’t -.”

“Why did you take her to the vet?” John rephrased.

“She’s been lying in the corner since this morning, did not pick up her food, pissed on herself – y’know she ain’t like that.”

Betsy wasn’t that old. She was eight – not enough to simply become senile overnight, even though she’d been sick quite a lot lately.

“She must’ve eaten something.”

“I told you she did not eat shit this morning.”

John sighed. A conversation with Randall always reminded him how much communication could be a fucking battle.

“Okay, okay. The vet will take care of her. When did she say she’d call you?”

“She said tomorrow morning. They keep her all night. Check how she is. Give her meds.”

“It’s okay, the cat’ll be alright.”

“Yeah, she better be, or that fucker’s really -.”

“The vet’s a nice woman, she’ll take care of Betsy, just go home and… chill.” The vet was a very nice lady whose only problem was in having no idea how to behave around Randall. In her defence, not many people actually did. John heard the engine of Randall’s car starting on the other side of the line.

“You can’t use your phone and drive.” John reminded him.

“Yeah, I was going to hung up, don’t worry. Are you coming to visit during the summer?”

John stopped in his tracks. He counted on going to see Randall during the summer, obviously, but he still had no idea when. He first had to arrange stuff with Billy’s group, as to where they’d spend a week together, maybe see what Max would be up to and, most importantly, find a job.

“Yeah, but I can’t tell you which week yet.” John answered.

“Hum. ‘kay. Let me know.”

“Sure.” But Randall had already hung up.

John was not used to Randall calling him, but if Betsy was sick… Well, Randall’s only friend was DeGroot, but DeGroot had never actually _lived_ with the cat. Betsy was top of the very small list of things Randall cared about. John was probably the only person who could understand his distress, and, just maybe, share it.

 

-

 

The irony wasn’t lost on John that even though his photocopying duties were squandered because of the teacher who’d assigned them to him, he still had to spend an ungodly amount of time trying to read Voltaire while the machines fumed.

That Tuesday, though, he was left speechless at the papers he found forgotten next to the copy machine. Three of them were untitled, but their content quite clear; final exams questions for three classes of the College of History. The last was titled, the subject handwritten in what he recognized to be Flint’s hand. He quickly saw it wasn’t the final exam for John’s class, but he knew Flint gave a lecture on _Structuralism and post-structuralist French philosophy_ to undergraduates.

It took John barely a minute to take a picture of every paper, before disposing them back exactly in the fashion he had found them.

 

-

 

He knocked on Max and Charlotte’s door three times, but neither one of them seemed to be there. It was Wednesday night and he had waited for Max, sent her messages, and was now almost worried. He knew she must have been with Anne, or with one of her other friends, but he could not bring himself to accept that she had stood him up for their Wednesday dinner without a word.

It wasn’t a formal thing, but well… habits did not have to be written in stone to be sacred.

 

John was waiting for Gareth to finish his shower to take his when he received a message from Flint.

_I’m at the corner of your building._

John stared at it, perplexed. First, Flint never sent him messages, or only laconic ones postponing or rescheduling the meetings they had previously fixed. Second, the sentence made no sense.

_You texted the wrong number, this is Silver._

_I know._ Followed shortly by: _You coming?_

Gareth emerged from the shower and gestured to John that he was free to use it, but all John could do was stare at his screen.

_What are you talking about?_

_Told you, I’m at the corner._

John sighed, mumbling something to Gareth about seeing Max and left his room with only his jacket and his phone. Once on the first floor he exited through one of the secondary entrances, the one closer to where he guessed Flint would have stopped his car if he was really there.

It turned out that he was. Flint rolled his window down as John approached. The second he rested his elbows on Flint’s windowpane bending towards his teacher’s face, he understood the situation.

“How many beers did you have?” John asked.

“Did you know that Gates was a very funny man?”

“He’s my boss, I don’t need to know that. What do you want?” It came out harsher than John had intended. The equilibrium he had stroked with Flint, over whatever it was they were doing, was delicate. Not only was the man a complete basket case, Silver was feeling coming from his teacher an emotional involvement that he did not mirror. Not an emotional involvement in _him_ per se, but a more general feeling of things lurking in the shadows that he did not know what to do with.

“Hum… well. I’m…” Flint seemed at a loss for words.

Well, maybe he was too old to know how to spell booty call? Probably.

“You sure you can even _drive_?” John suddenly realized.

Flint’s face made a weird thing, a grimace that twitched his lips in a frown, and made him look menacing when, truly, he was the one at fault.

“Of course I can fucking drive.” He hissed.

Without giving John a chance to contradict him, Flint moved for John’s lips, initiating a kiss that had John closing his eyes and forgetting where he was in a second. It lasted for a long moment, quiet, and definitely foreign, in that they had never kissed without the overload of sensations that came with the rest of their bodies being pressed together. John realized, to his surprise, that two weeks of fooling around with Flint had been enough for him to develop a knowledge of where and how their tongues would brush against one another. That was too close to a habit John did not recall himself developing before.

By the time Flint let go to catch his breath, John’s pants felt tight, and he was definitely on board with Flint’s initial idea – that had so far not been spelled out – which had probably been the point of the whole kissing.

“Car sex, huh?” John teased.

Flint shrugged, but did not object and John finally circled the car to go to the passenger’s seat. Closing the door loudly behind him, he realized once inside that despite Flint’s efforts the place they were parked in was still too conspicuous.

“Maybe drive further down? There’s a parking lot that nobody ever uses right by the 1002 building.”

Flint turned the engine back on, and began driving in the direction John had indicated. It was only when he turned the car to the parking’s entrance and overrode the sidewalk that John realized that he was maybe a bit drunker than he let show.

“How many beer did you say you had?”

“Fuck off.”

“Did you even _realize_ you drove on the sidewalk just now?” John gestured in the general direction of behind them.

Flint blemished and John sighed, rubbing his forehead even as Flint’s hand was making its way to his upper thigh. John stopped it.

“Come on. I’ll get you home.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m not -.”

“No, you’re not drunk. But that doesn’t mean you can drive yourself home.”

John knew that he was setting himself up for a very uncomfortable situation, once he’d driven Flint home. It was almost 11 pm, and wherever Flint lived, he’d have no way to come back to the dorms. Well, given he was acting as a good samaritan, Flint could probably find him a couch, somewhere.

“When did you become a good person?” Flint asked.

“Fuck you.”

 

-

 

Flint’s house looked oddly expensive for the property of an English teacher. The front yard was a vibrant green lawn, and the terrace was lined with nice looking colonnades. It was even… conspicuously expensive, actually.

“Can I crash on your couch?” Silver asked as he turned the car’s engine off.

Flint, crouched on the passenger’s seat, looked at him through barely open eyes. He had fallen asleep a while back.

“I thought you were going to take my car to get back.”

“And how do you think you’d be going to your class tomorrow?”

“Well, how do _you_ figure you’re going to _my_ class tomorrow?” His nap had made Flint regain some of his senses.

“Can you let me do the thinking and just get your ass inside your house?”

Flint sighed but extracted himself from the car. John checked twice if he was parked correctly and if he'd turned off the car lights. When he finally reached the house’s front door, Flint was waiting for him so he could close it.

“Take off your shoes.” Flint told him.

John complied, trying to see where he was going, but the only light was coming from the porch and wasn’t helping him form a proper vision of his surroundings, except that they were as richly decorated as the front of the house had suggested.

Flint led the way to a room that looked like it was his without asking for John’s opinion, and John didn’t complain. It wasn’t like he’d ever been serious about the couch thing.

The room was prettily furnished with an air of pompousness that John could finally liken to that of an English teacher’s. As Flint crashed on his side of the bed, John tried to study the place, but his examination was quickly cut:

“You coming?”

However much enticing Flint's request, John still longed for a shower.

“Actually… I was about to have a shower when you came out of nowhere. So, whatever your plans exactly, I think you’d appreciate them much more if I could have one before.”

“Oh. Of course. There are towels there -” Flint gestured towards one of the drawers, “and the bathroom’s second door on the right. Don’t make too much noise.” He added as John was exiting the room.

“What, so I don’t wake up the neighbours?” John sneered, and left without waiting for an answer.

 

-

 

When he got out of the shower, the blinking light of his cellphone reminded him he hadn’t told Gareth anything since he’d left. The man wasn’t his chaperone, but he figured giving some news wouldn’t kill him, especially to avoid anyone growing unnecessarily angry – or worse, worried.

But the three calls and two texts were actually from Max, which he hadn’t expected:

_Where are you?_

_Next time you need me to cover up for you, brief me beforehand so I don’t almost blow it._

“Fuck.” He mumbled, typing quickly:

_Sorry. See you later._

He did not waste too much time thinking ahead of the lie he was going to feed her. After all, lying was probably the only thing he was good enough at to improvise it on the spot.

 

_-_

 

He had figured he’d find Flint passed out, but his teacher was just reading a book, exactly where he’d left him. A clean t-shirt was left on the other side of the bed for him.

When John finally got to lay down, clean, comfortable, and wearing Flint’s scent, he realized that he really needed to brief Flint on the implicit rules of what a booty call were supposed to be. However, he barely had the time to think about feeding the man a definition of _booty call_ to begin with that Flint had already straddled him, holding his face between his hands, his gaze intent, though John could barely see it properly because of the long shadows the lamp was casting from the other side of the room.

John sighed contently, closing his eyes and leaning into Flint’s touch, their bodies pressing in the familiar way they had learned to in barely two weeks time.

It had been a weird realization for John to recount that he’d never had that many sober encounters with the same person in all his life. Billy had been the longest fling he’d ever had, even though it had lasted only a month. But, even then, most of what they’d lived through had been at a time of his life where physical intimacy only corresponded to drunk or drugged encounters. Billy had decided it wasn’t a good way to go – and John had agreed. There was no point in forcing a relationship to work that necessitated permanent intoxication to function.

It didn’t mean it hadn’t been unexpectedly painful to see Billy find such an easy equilibrium afterwards, first with Abigail, and then with Ben. Not in that he had been jealous – Billy as a friend was one of the rare good things in his life – but because he had wondered what it was, about him, that made it so hard for people to stay. But, after all, it wasn’t like it was the first time he hadn’t been enough for someone.

That was why John could ( _should_ ) have freaked out about the unexpected amount of encounters he had had with Flint – each came as surprise, as Flint never announced one to be the last, nor seemed to be clearly envisioning the end of it all. In all of it, there was no element of stability that was asked of John – and yet what a stable thing it was nonetheless. That paradox was one John mused about often, without ever managing to find the beginning of an explanatory thread.

 

It was Flint’s hand tugging at the hem of his shirt that brought him back to his more immediate reality – very soon and very quickly, they were almost naked, in a way they had never been so far, mainly because of the impracticality of it all back at the university.

“Are you sure you’re not too old to be staying up this late?” John couldn’t resist mocking Flint then, their bodies achingly pressed one against the other. John was alarmingly content being stuck between the mattress and Flint’s body; almost all he could focus one was the salty taste of Flint’s skin, or Flint’s mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses along the nape of his shoulder.

“Do you ever shut up?” But Flint was amused, and it could be heard in the way his voice couldn’t withhold the softness of the question mark.

“Your fault, for not keeping me busy enough.” John answered, flirtatious and shameless. His remark had the intended effect, as Flint’s immediate reaction – stillness – was then overcome by a ragged breath and Flint’s hand gripping John’s cock, firmly stroking it until John was close to panting.

“Come on, let’s at least enjoy the fact that we have a bed, for once.” John’s voice came out ragged and uneven, devoid of any of the bite he could have considered bringing to it.

His legs were aching, strained as they were under the tension caused by Flint’s grip on him, and the pressure of Flint’s body upon his was both a pleasurable feeling and a constricting weight at the same time.

“And condoms, and lube.” Flint added.

Balancing his weight to get to his bedside table necessitated both of Flint’s hands, and John found himself aching for the touch to be back once it was gone, though he said nothing, just bit his lip, his eyes trailing Flint’s body as it moved. He could not resist the desire to trace the line of the muscles moving under the freckled skin of Flint’s arms – and there was no point in resisting, after all. Wasn’t he there for this, precisely?

John thought he saw Flint smile at him as he then brushed his finger along Flint’s freckles, but didn’t dwell too much on it.

It was seamless, what Flint did next. John didn’t have to think about much of anything before Flint was lying face down on the mattress, his limbs sprawled in a lazy way, as if he was just content to be there. Silver began to work Flint slowly, so he would be loose enough, taking his time, scrutinizing each and every one of Flint’s slightest reactions to his fingers. It was a pleasure in and of itself, to hear him hiss, watch his eyes flutter, until all accounts were levelled and it was Flint’s turn to be panting, writhing mindlessly under John’s touch.

It was a good thing that they’d had so much time to learn about one another’s reactions, in the two weeks which had led up to this. John felt less hurried, less nervous, and any thought that maybe Flint’s experience would have him laugh at John’s was completely forgotten. And after a while, because he’d learned to know when Flint was or wasn’t guarded, it was easy to tentatively ask:

“Ok?”

Flint nodded, eyes still closed. John finally positioned himself, his left hand on Flint’s shoulder gripping hard enough to leave unintended marks.

The first few thrusts were tentative, and John found himself grinding his teeth to bite back his moan, overwhelmed at how good it felt – he’d almost forgotten how pleasurable it could be, to have someone like that, to _be_ with someone like that. He had to stop several times, afraid all of their foreplay had already brought him too close to the edge – Flint’s frustrated moans every time he stopped didn’t help his situation in the slightest.

Bending over so he could bury his face into the crook of Flint’s neck, engulfed by his smell and his hair, his movements grew constrained, but Flint just writhed under him, bringing his hand to John’s cheek. Even then, John did not find it in himself to go much longer, and he came with a ragged moan after a few quick thrusts, biting at Flint’s neck maybe a bit too forcefully, his body shuddering under his pleasure.

He finished Flint with his hand, pointedly avoiding his gaze, and fighting against the drowsiness that was settling on his muscles. He’d have apologized if Flint didn’t look like he was so thoroughly gone in pleasure – his mouth was parted as John worked him to his end, his hand a comfortable and reassuring weight cradling the back of John’s head, only tightening on his hair as he came close to release, pulling almost painfully as he finally reached it.

As they both slowly drifted towards sleep, John found it reward enough to have Flint lazily claim a bite of his lower lip, worrying it a for a few seconds before laying on his back with a contented sigh. He got up to throw the condom away, and by the time he was back in the bed, Flint was already tucked under his sheets, sound asleep.

 

-

 

His phone read 5:42 am when John woke with a start. He could not tell what had made him jerk awake, but he felt decisively that he would not be falling asleep any time soon. Because of how tired they’d both been, none had considered getting up afterwards to clean themselves. Now, however, the thought of another shower lured John out of the room, helping him make his way to the bathroom he’d been to the night before. He wished there were enough light for him to study more adequately the photographs on the hallway wall, but he hadn’t been able to find the switch.

Once out of the shower, he put back the clothes he’d come with, and threw Flint’s shirt in the laundry basket.

The second he stepped into the hallway, the smell of freshly brewed coffee hit him, soothing and unbelievably welcome. He had probably woken Flint without realizing it, he assumed as he made his way towards the noises unequivocally indicating someone laying plates and cutlery for breakfast. John hoped Flint wouldn’t be too angry about that – it was still too early for them to be awake, given class only started at 9.

To his utter delight, the lights had been turned on in every room or hallway he had to cross to reach the source of the noises. However enticing the smell of fresh coffee was, now that he could study his surroundings, his curiosity got the best of him.

Sure, this wasn’t Eleanor’s mansion, in all its pompousness and marbles hallways and fucking chandeliers – but those were two side of the same coin really. Where Eleanor’s family had chosen ostentatious displays, here all was subdued, the wooden shelves bringing warmth and cosiness to almost every room where there had been enough place to put books.

Flint must have inherited a shitload of money – John had no idea what an English teacher’s home should have looked like, but he was pretty certain it wasn’t _this._ One day, when Flint seemed to be in one of his amenable moods, John would probably be brave enough to ask.

A hundred little things were lying around; pens, notes, books marked with receipts, dying flowers in their colourful vases. A bottle of nail polish was left next to a pocket version of Borges’ _Fictions_ , and John throat grew narrow as some dots suddenly connected themselves in his head. He’d felt like the place was home to more than just one person, ever since he’d first come in, especially when he had pondered about Flint’s injunction not to make too much noise, but had set aside the thought as ridiculous – surely, Flint would have spelled it out if someone had been in the house with them. Wouldn’t he?

Those realizations didn’t help him not to get startled when a woman’s voice came from behind him:

“Good morning.”

John almost jumped out of his skin and turned around to find a stunning woman looking at him from the doorway of the room he had wandered into.

“I’m sorry I startled you.” She added when he remained silent, his mouth ridiculously agape and mute.

John’s fear was heavily tingled with sheer incomprehension, the resulting mix utterly scary and uncomfortable. His mind made quick work of trying to figure how far he was from the front door, and how easily he could just run before the cheated woman could flay him alive.

“What the fuck…?” He mumbled under his breath. He felt like a trapped animal – Flint had worn no ring, though she did – his head was a flurry of emotions and contradicting impressions.

“James didn’t tell you?” Her brows were creased and she seemed perplexed, but her demeanour was neither the demeanour of a cheated wife, nor that of a lover.

John’s face answered for him, as he bit back his _what do you fucking think_ repartee.

“My name is Miranda. I live here too. Sorry if I startled you. There’s both coffee and tea, which would you prefer?”

She turned around and he followed her after a beat, incapable of not abiding by her unspoken command to do so. She laid napkins around the three plates she had already set, totally oblivious to the way John was decomposing in a puddle of confusion right in front of her kitchen doorway, before taking a chair. After a while, she trailed her stare back to him, the hint of a smile curling her expression.

“I understand your confusion, Mr. Silver. Unfortunately, I believe the explanations are not mine to give.” She uncorked a bottle of jam. “Please.” She pointed at another chair.

John pondered the situation for a moment, startled at how unbelievably elegant that woman was. She was already dressed for work, her suit a beige ensemble upon which her long hair fell in ample waves. But John was pretty certain she could be dressed in rags and covered in dirt she’d still look like the most majestic person in any room.

She knew him already, he belatedly realized.

It was in equal parts her magnetism and his desire not to look stupid faced with such a woman that pushed him to finally sit.

“Coffee.” He said, noticing she was still waiting for an answer.

As she served him, he realized she was unbelievably good at studying people without appearing to be doing exactly that – he’d had his fair share of practice in that area too, but she _excelled_. He felt like a school boy under her scrutiny.

“I’m sorry I woke you up this early. I must have made too much noise getting ready. I have to drive an hour and a half to get to the conservatory. And classes start a bit earlier there than they do at Underhill. So.”

John was spared the effort of having to think of an answer to what she had just said, as Flint suddenly entered the kitchen. His face was a mask of perplexity as he stood in the doorway, his eyes darting from John to Miranda, and from Miranda back to John, without being able to decide which one warranted his attention more. In the end, he focused on Miranda, a wordless exchange taking place in the blink of an eye, telling John more about their relationship than they had probably intended, though it didn’t help him feel less perplexed at the whole thing.

“I figured we’d have woken you up. There’s tea.” Miranda finally said.

Flint’s face was back to being blank, and John knew that he was the one warranting that. In all honesty, he really did not care that much about the whole situation now that it had become clear that Miranda wasn’t a scorned lover – or, at least, that she might be a lover, but wasn’t going to act like a scorned one. However, as Flint turned around and left without having spoken a word, John grew anxious.

“Don’t worry too much, it’s about me, not you.” Miranda brought him back to reality, her voice deliberately soothing.

“Isn’t it actually about everything?” John had meant it as a sarcastic answer, but there were things in the room he neither understood nor could envision, and his sentence rang unnecessarily true. Miranda remained silent afterwards, getting up only to put her plate in the sink and bid him goodbye.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Silver.”

He wished to call her by her last name, but she’d only given him Miranda, and there was no way on earth he could call her just _that_.

“Thank you, you too.”

John heard Flint and Miranda’s voices coming from afar a few moments later. He approached the doorway, trying to catch what they were saying, but beside the anger in Flint’s voice, little could be derived from the few words he managed to overhear.

When Flint entered the kitchen, John was at his third serving of toasts and jam, and had finished the coffee Miranda had left, preparing himself some more. Flint was dressed for class now, his hair still wet from the shower, and barefoot.

His teacher stared at him for a good minute without saying anything. John wished they were in a situation where he could just make references to the night they’d had, or about how coffee would probably help more with his hangover than tea, but Flint’s stature was tense, and John thought it wiser to wait and see what his footing could – and should – be.

“What did she tell you?”

That wasn’t the question John had expected. “That there’s both tea and coffee.”

“I’m being serious.” Flint chastised him.

It wasn’t agreeable, and John was making a very big effort right now not to remind Flint that if anyone in the room should have been angry, or whose right it was to express discomfort at the situation, it was him, not Flint.

“So am I.” John answered with a tone of finality.

Flint must have felt that John wouldn’t be dealt with that way, and he calmed down, joining him at the table after a few moments. It took him some other long minutes before he stopped brooding and started eating.

 

-

 

“Is she your wife?” John asked.

The ride back had been silent so far, and though the coffee managed to keep John awake, he was still keenly aware of the fatigue of his body.

“No.”

“Your girlfriend, lover?”

John still couldn’t believe Flint hadn’t volunteered any kind of explanation about anything. John knew that he should just let it go and let Flint make things clear later if he so wished – but, well, he’d never been known for his capacity to control his mouth when curiosity was getting the best of him.

“It’s complicated.”

“Do I have to be worried that she’s gonna skin me alive?”

To John’s utter dismay, Flint huffed a laugh of amusement, as if John had just cracked a joke.

“No. No, you don’t.”

They were near the bus station where John had told Flint he could drop him. From there, he’d only have a ten minute ride to get to the dorms, so he could change into proper clothes. Flint stopped the car on the other side of the road.

“I’ll see you after class?” He asked as John was unfastening his seatbelt.

John blinked, not expecting that after the car ride they just had, and Flint was quick to interpret his silence the wrong way.

“Or not, if you have stuff to do. I’ve already taken up your evening yesterday after all.”

“No, I’m fine.” John smiled, almost endeared. “After class is fine. As usual.”

They refrained from kissing goodbye, and John saw Flint’s car pass by the bus stop as he was waiting. His phone’s battery was dead and he had to bear the bus ride without music.

He quickly changed his clothes once in his bedroom, glad that Gareth had already left.

When barely half an hour after leaving Flint’s car he entered his class, a small tinge of excitement bubbled in his chest as he smiled to his teacher.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of rape in this chapter.
> 
> This one is by far my favourite chapter amongst all those I've already written so I hope you guys won't be disappointed. It's insanely longer than what I'm used to - I hope it's still okay.
> 
> Ongi: comme d'habitude, merci mille fois pour tes retours et tes encouragements. Je t'aime.
> 
> Some: hihihihihihihi. It shouldn't be making this happy to know you're liking this that much, should it? ;)

_"We never taste happiness in perfection, our most fortunate successes are mixed with sadness."_ \- Pierre Corneille.

* * *

 

For the last week, a deadline had been approaching for Dufresnes’ thesis, the nature of which John never managed to properly remember, only caring about it insofar that Flint was stuck reading and correcting an insanely long – and apparently poorly written – thing Dufresnes had done. For the last week, Flint and John barely had time to exchange a word, except for pining at each other silently and discreetly during class.

John had to admit he had played neither fair nor square during that period. Flint had to keep a poker face while John shamelessly smiled, bit at his pen, and did every stupid thing he could think about to indispose Flint while he was giving his lecture. Every murderous glance he earned at the end of class was an insanely satisfying reward to his stupid antics. Billy teased him about how smitten he looked with their teacher, and John’s roaring laughter as an answer was gloriously misinterpreted as further proof of his crush.

All the free time Flint’s reviewing had given John was spent compensating for Vane’s class, which he otherwise woefully neglected given his investment with that other teacher of his. He had consequently spent his entire Sunday’s afternoon reading Acemoglu’s _Why Nations Fail_ for Vane’s Spanish colonization class. Seeing an unknown caller ID popping on his phone’s shattered screen was almost a relief, if not a very valid pretext to suspend his studying.

“Mr. John Silver?”

The instant he heard the very formal and very professional female voice, his body went limp. Déjà-vu tightened his chest in a knot of worry, even before the voice could add:

“This is St. John’s hospital.”

“Yes?” He had intended his voice as forceful, but it only came out as a yelp.

“You are Ms. Max LeFevre’s emergency contact, is that right?”

The worst conclusions, the worst case scenarios were the ones which immediately invaded his thoughts – and it wasn’t like life hadn’t already set the bar very, very low regarding him receiving ominous phone calls.

“Yes…?” _How bad is it?_ He wanted to ask, already standing up, charting how long it would take him to reach the hospital.

“She had a hypoglycaemia crisis, her friends brought her to the hospital after she insisted to have analyses done. Ms. LeFevre asked us to contact you.”

“I’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

Gareth was oblivious to John’s brusque exit of their room.

 

-

 

The cab, the sprinting, the hallways – it all flashed in a blur, until he was in a waiting room with Anne staring at him with perplexity written all over her face.

He was panting, palms sweaty, and couldn’t feel his legs – he had bitten one of his nails so hard on the way there it was bleeding. Jack Rackham and Charles Vane were both sitting behind her, chatting idly, still oblivious to his sudden appearance.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Silver? What you doing here?”

His attention focused back on Anne. His ears were buzzing; none of the memories he had in a hospital which involved Max in one way or another were helping him calm down at that moment.

Rackham and Vane had stopped chatting and were both staring at him, puzzled, though he barely noticed.

“What happened?” He still hadn’t managed to catch his breath, and his voice came out in a high-pitched tone that denoted in unequivocal terms how panicked he was.

“Nothin’ for fuck’s sake, calm down.” Anne sneered again, disdain oozing from her expression. _She really doesn’t know_. “She fainted, hypoglycaemia or shit. When she woke up she said it was better if we took her here, ‘cause it already happened to her and she was deficient in God fucking knows what.”

The words took a few moments to sink in – and even then, all he could think about was Max’s lie. He’d figured – he’d figured she had told Anne. She had seemed so in love, and she spent so much time with her, and… -.

And Anne didn’t know.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Silver?”

And what was fucking _Charles Vane_ doing there? But John didn’t have time to ponder each and every little thing that didn’t make sense right now. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply for ten seconds – ten breaths – and brusquely caught the attention of a passing nurse.

“Ms. LeFevre?”

“Oh, yes, follow me.”

 

-

 

Max was in a chair, a tube flowing out of her arm. She was pale, but didn’t have the scared look he had come to associate with the after ripples of her panic attacks.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry –” Her apologies, though mumbled and unnecessary, did more to calm John than anything else could have.

This wasn’t as terrible as what he’d grown accustomed to. This, he could manage.

“I just forgot to eat enough. We drank yesterday, and I wasn’t feeling super well this afternoon. And I fainted. Nothing too bad. You know how I get hypoglycaemia – or you don’t, I don’t know.”

Actually, like for most things pertaining to Max’s health, he knew, so he just nodded. His reflexes were kicking back in now that he was faced with her – the reflexes of taking care of her, alongside Idelle, were like muscle memory it turned out.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry.” He said.

“I just got scared after I fainted, and I was scared I would get a panic attack, I was growing numb. So I asked them to take me here, so I could just… call you, or Idelle.”

“It’s okay.” He repeated. “Stop apologizing, Max.”

He came closer, but not close enough to invade her personal space. Rule number 1. He sat on a nearby empty bed, folding his hands on his laps.

“How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. Max was the worst person anyone could ever have to take care of – she never faltered, and refused any insight on her breakdowns to anyone. Idelle and him (and Charlotte, to a certain extent), had had to struggle with it for a year after her assault, trying to strike the finest balance between helping her get better and making her feel like she wasn’t losing her agency when she asked for or needed help.

“I’ve been worse. I think I might have over reacted – it’s just… they don’t know, and I was scared Anne would see me have a breakdown.”

“I assumed you had told her.” John had settled on making her talk – so long as she talked, it was okay. Rule number 2. Bonus: the matter interested him. He was surprised she’d never told Anne about her assault.

“Not yet.” She paused, and he felt like she wanted to add more, looking for precise words. “She’s the first new important person in my life that doesn’t know about it. It’s been harder to decide when to tell her than I’d thought it would be.”

John nodded again.

“What’s that thing in your arm?”

“Sugar. Salt. Vitamins. Stuff.”

“And you’re fucking Jack Rackham too?”

She laughed – an unexpected and joyful laugh. John’s fears assuaged following that. It was nothing like the endless nights he and Idelle had had to go through, battling tears and yells and trying to uselessly coax Max to sleep – this was manageable. This was okay.

“Oh God… it’s so complicated.”

“I hope you have a better excuse than _it’s complicated_ for not telling me a word about it all.” John teased her.

“Well, you guessed, so...”

“I’ve only guessed there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Well, you’re fucking two people. Don’t make me believe you never did that before those two. _I_ have, and I don’t have half your good looks.”

She laughed harder at that one, and he caught himself smiling at his remark too.

“Thing is… I’m not actually fucking Jack.” Seeing John begin an answer, she cut him short: “Nor is he fucking me.”

John stared, his picture of a threesome suddenly shattered.

“Okay, I’m lost.” He conceded.

“Anne loves Jack. Jack loves Anne. I love Anne. Anne loves me. I don’t want to fuck Jack. Neither does Anne want me to fuck Jack. So… the gymnastics involved are… not really those you would picture.” She concluded.

Well, so much for John hoping he wasn’t the only one fucking a teacher.

“I’m okay. I’m sorry I freaked you out. Anne had my phone so I could only tell the nurse to call my emergency contact.” Max started apologizing again, faced with John’s silence. “I needed somebody who knew.”

“Don’t apologize.” He repeated for the hundredth time. “It’s fine. It’s not like I was spending a wonderful Sunday afternoon anyway.”

“So, I didn’t interrupt you and Flint?”

It was as much an educated guess as a fishing hook she was throwing his way – but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to let himself be hooked on that one. After all, she had come clean, and he trusted her.

“No, we rarely see each other on the weekends.”

She nodded, a little smile tugging at her lips. She was probably just as happy about his confession as he’d been with hers – would it have been this easy, for the last month, to just say it like that for things to be okay? Probably. Life was unnecessarily complicated sometimes.

“And what the fuck is Charles Vane doing here? You’re fucking-not-fucking him too?”

“God, no. He just spent the night at Jack’s place, after drinking himself dead.”

“Rackham’s house must be quite the joyful place on Saturday evenings.”

 

-

 

Max was discharged an hour later.

John left the room they’d been in at her side, close enough to be able to intervene if she faltered, but far enough to pretend that wasn’t exactly what he was doing. Anne, Rackham, and Vane were all eagerly awaiting them, this time looking a bit more anxious than when John had seen them earlier. Max was all smiles and reassuring glances when she kissed Anne, quietly rubbing her arm.

“John’s my emergency contact, so they just called him automatically.”

John was pretty certain everyone knew how much of a lie that was, but everyone just nodded along.

 

-

 

As John exited the hospital under Rackham and Vane’s insistences that they would bring him back to the dorms – offers he forcefully declined, eager to leave Max on her own now that she looked fine – he was startled to see a message from Flint on his phone.

_I finished correcting Dufresnes’ article, want to go have dinner?_

He stood on the sidewalk as the night was falling rather abruptly and the city lights were gradually being turned on. He did not know what he wanted to do, or say. He felt empty – dealing with that kind of stuff strained him too much. Rackham honked at him as their car drove by, and John waived politely.

It had been more than a year since he’d had to deal with Max in _that_ way, and suddenly he found himself thrown back to that past – when he and Idelle would be the ones instructed by the psychologists on how and what to do when she had a panic attack, or looked like she was about to have one. Back then, he had almost lived at Idelle’s place for a while, because Max couldn’t stand being on campus too much, given what had happened there. He had slept on the floor of the tiny two-room studio that Idelle used to share with another girl for almost all of their second year at Underhill.

With hindsight, he considered that moment of his life to be the one when he had stopped being a little shit – not completely, but at least in part. Caring didn’t come easy to him, nor did emotional investment in other people’s well-being. But on Max’s matter, life hadn’t really given him a choice, and Idelle had made it pretty clear that if he didn’t rise to the occasion, she’d have him skinned alive. Idelle’s no nonsense attitude back then had coaxed him, gradually, to sort of become a version of himself he liked a little better than the previous ones.

He stared back at his phone, trying to figure out a proper answer, and deleting three times an apology that he couldn’t manage to properly word. He really didn’t want to see anyone at the moment but this was the first time in ever that Flint actually asked him to do something that did not involve a bedroom, or bedroom-related activities. It looked like the biggest leap of faith Flint had ever taken, probably bigger than when it had all began, because this time no threat hang over anyone’s head – and John wasn’t eager to shut the door in his teacher’s face, however uncertain he felt about whatever it was they shared.

Giving up on texting back a response he was comfortable with, he pressed call.

“Hey, sorry for calling.” John’s voice came out more ragged than he had anticipated. He realized he was shuddering, under-dressed for the chill of the night.

“It’s fine. You okay?”

“Actually, a friend of mine was at St John’s. I’m still…” He swallowed the sentence, eager to avoid any question. “I’d love to go have dinner – just not tonight.”

Silence followed on the other side of the line, and John wondered if Flint understood what he had just said, or if he would just feel blindly rejected.

“Flint?” He finally asked, as he felt the silence stretching for too long.

“Yeah, sorry. I understand. Is your friend okay?” Before John could answer, Flint cut him short by adding: “And James is fine. The last name thing is growing really awkward, Miranda tastefully reminded me this week.”

“Huh, okay. And yeah, my friend...” John didn’t finish his sentence, slightly overwhelmed. God, was he tired. “It’s fine.”

He realized his hands had finally stopped shaking. He always forgot to take into account the understated miracles of talking to someone in times of need. Maybe spending some time with Flint before he went back to the dorms would be better than borrowing himself in his room with a thankless book?

“What did you have in mind for dinner?”

“I thought you -.”

“Yeah, changed my mind. You know me, never one for consistency of thought.” He punctuated his sentence with a self-depreciating laugh. That seemed to do the trick.

“I’m assuming anything that’s not cafeteria food is fine for you, so, wherever, basically.”

“You’re assuming right.”

 

-

 

John hated dates, or anything that involved two people sitting together at a table, having to find a discussion topic that unnerves neither of the parties. It came out as a surprise that having to do it with Flint wasn’t as tedious as he had anticipated – however much he liked to think that he knew nothing about his teacher, or that they never actually talked, the truth was that they actually had enough shared experience that finding something to talk about was neither tedious nor unnerving.

The pizza place didn’t look high-end, a little Italian restaurant nestled between a 7-eleven and a closed thrift-shop, but it looked good – and it wasn’t a chain store. There were barely five tables, and even though John had initially assumed it was a familiar place for Flint, it turned out that it definitely wasn’t.

“Miranda told me it would be the least likely place for me to run into anybody I know. And the food’s good, she said.”

“How often do you randomly run into people you know? Underhill isn’t a fucking village.”

Flint just shrugged the question off.

John had noticed on his way there that Flint stood differently around him when they were in the street, leaving too much space between them – more than was warranted. It unnerved him – but it wasn’t his place to comment.

“Miranda...” Flint said right after they had places their orders. John was surprised, both at the beginning of the sentence, and at the hesitant tone. “She told me I shouldn’t have shut you out, after you met her. It was insanely rude.”

John tried his best not to start laughing out loud at Flint’s last addition.

“Nothing I’m not used to, actually.”

Flint took the blow more nicely than anticipated, smiling at John’s reminder that nothing he’d said following the Miranda episode had been out of character.

“Fair enough. But I hadn’t realized how puzzled you must have felt.”

“Puzzled is an understatement, James.” The name felt foreign and John almost immediately decided that he wouldn’t use it again. But Flint didn’t react, as if it the formality was entirely normal for them. “I thought she was your _wife_. She’s a got _fucking ring,_ for fuck’s sake.”

“I know. I hadn’t… thought it through.”

John remained silent, wondering if this was finally the moment when Flint would give long overdue explanations.

Turned out it wasn’t.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable as they waited for their food to arrive, and mindless small talk was enough to get them through the main dish. John ordered a glass of wine without asking James for his opinion, figuring that he better make the best out of dining on somebody else’s dime for once.

Several times, he thought he would ask Flint again about Miranda, but always stopped, a hazy fear of the man’s reaction cutting him short every time. It was Flint’s amused and clearly endeared stare at him as he enquired about the desserts that finally convinced John that he wouldn’t get skinned for trying his luck one last time.

“So you’re really not gonna give me an explanation?” He asked again after the waiter left.

He saw the shift that his question caused in Flint – but didn’t have time to consider it for too long before Flint took a deep breath.

“No interruption.” He began.

John nodded.

“No remarks until the end.”

“I’ll shut up until you formally instruct me that I can talk again. How does that sound?”

Flint stared at his plate. This time, it didn’t look like he was going to run away. More like he was bracing himself for what he was about to say. After long seconds went by during which John forced himself to keep his mouth shut, James finally began.

“Miranda was married to a man named Thomas. I met them both ten years ago. Different city. Different job.” John couldn’t see Flint’s eyes, or even his expressions, but the very sharp intake of breaths his teacher had to take every couple of sentences made John feel uncomfortably weary of what was to come. “Miranda had an affair with me. I was friend with Thomas, in the beginning. And then, more than friend. It was...”

Flint stopped, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Though he talked mostly in ellipsis, John didn’t have any trouble filling in the empty spaces, one image at a time.

“We lived the three of us together, for a while. _Together_.” The emphasis wasn’t lost on John – but Flint raised his head anyway, as if asking for confirmation that John had really understood what he had just said. John nodded. “For four years, roughly speaking. And then Thomas had cancer. It was over quickly. It was five years ago.”

John felt the blow sharply, swallowing with difficulty. He politely bent his head so as to not look at James, whose voice was clearly indicating he was on the verge of tears.

It took another long moments, and the waiter coming back to give John his tiramisu, before Flint finally told him:

“Ok. You can talk now.”

Flint’s eyes were wide, and John was almost wounded when he found them marred with anxiety.

“I’m really sorry for your loss.” Was all John finally said.

Flint didn’t answer, and John handed him the second spoon the waiter had brought, placing the tiramisu in the middle of the table without a word. Flint took the spoon, and ate a few bites, while John remained silent. It didn’t feel like any words would be appropriate enough for the moment – so he didn’t try to find them.

The motion of asking for the note, paying, and walking back to the parked car eased the tension, taking away layer by layer the suspended reality they’d been into while in the restaurant. John’s head was lighter, his afternoon at the hospital surprisingly relegated to the back of his mind, and James and Miranda’s story playing at the forefront. He knew he would need time to form a proper image of it, but the snapshots James had given him were vivid enough to have him lose himself in their story.

He snapped back to reality when he realized that they’d both buckled their seatbelts and yet James hadn’t started the car.

“Where do you want to go?” James asked when he saw him staring.

The question had never been framed this way – if it had ever been framed at all. At the core of whatever it was they were doing, John had always found most appreciable the fact that after _his_ taking the first step, he could just let Flint take him along, always leading. Asking what John wanted was an entirely different matter – it required him to think about… stuff. Did he want to go to Flint’s house and have sex until they both fell asleep? Of course. But John could tell that wasn’t really what the question was about.

“You’re the one who just shared something meaningful. _You_ tell me if you want to bear with me for the rest of the night or if you want to be left alone. I’m completely fine with both.”

James’ surprise wasn’t the reaction John had anticipated. Well, it was true that what he’d just said was the most mature and articulate thing he’d said in all his life, but Flint couldn’t really know that, could he?

“Your company doesn’t bother me.” James finally answered.

 

-

 

John woke up again insanely early despite his desire not to. He blinked stupidly in the dark, gradually coming to his senses, not understanding that the odd weight on his chest was Flint’s arm sprawled across him. He was feeling sore – agreeably so. James’ weight was genuinely pleasing, a wonderful reminder of his touch and their night. It all felt so comfortable, John almost fell mindlessly back into sleep.

But then his body jerked awake almost on its own, realizing it was Miranda getting ready who had woken him up. He was as eager to get out of the room and go have breakfast with her as he was not to; a disagreeable mix of contradicting feelings he could only explain with the help of her sheer magnetism. However, given James’ reaction the last time he’d seen John interact with Miranda, John wasn’t eager to be on the receiving end of a similar ire.

“You can get up if you want.” James’ voice was hoarse. John hadn’t realized he’d woken him up.

“Can I?”

“Hum. She’s probably already made you coffee.”

“You sure you’re not gonna make a scene afterwards?”

“I prefer it when you’re unable to ask stupid questions.” It was probably an innuendo of some sort, but its purpose was entirely defeated by the sleepy voice it was uttered in.

 

“Good morning.” He greeted Miranda. He’d made as much noise as possible before coming to stand on the kitchen’s doorway, watching her lay plates and cutlery, as she kept an eye on the omelettes she was frying.

“Hi, Mr. Silver. Coffee’s ready.”

“It smells delicious. May I help?”

She finally looked at him, and he saw that she was surprisingly happy for someone who had to wake at 5:30 for her job. Her ensemble was a deep shade of blue today, and he took note of how her hair was tied in an elegant bun instead of flowing freely on her shoulders like the last time he had seen her.

“Keep an eye on the eggs.”

He did as instructed as she kept on roaming from one side of the room to the other. By the time they were both seated and enjoying breakfast, she looked so positively different from the last time he’d seen her he wondered what it was that made her so suddenly radiant. The silent companionship was agreeable and he drifted back to his thoughts.

He hadn’t had time to think about what James had told him after they had come to his place, and suddenly found that indeed, many of the things he hadn’t understood regarding the last time he had overslept there could be explained by the existence of a ghost. The place, however, didn’t look like it was home to three people, and John remembered that James had indeed told him that as long as Thomas had been alive all three of them had lived in another city.

“Are some of your thoughts worth sharing?” Miranda interrupted his thinking. She had finished her plate, and probably had a few more minutes to spare before leaving the house.

John answered honestly, almost without missing a beat:

“James told me yesterday about your late husband.”

Sure, she wasn’t as lunatic as James, but he hadn’t expected her to start _beaming_ at his answer. “He did? That’s wonderful.”

“Well, it was elliptical at best, but I suppose it explains why he freaked out when I met you. And other stuff.”

“Yes. He hadn’t expected you to wake up before I left, I think.” She smiled some more and a thought suddenly crossed John’s mind – he could suddenly form an educated guess on what it was that was happening there.

“There hasn’t been anyone for him since Thomas, has there? Not including you, I mean.”

He thought he saw an air of appreciation coming from her as she answered: “Not that I ever knew of, no.”

 

It was still early for Flint and him to begin getting ready when Miranda left, and John simply went back to bed. He was almost anticipating James to kick him out of it for waking him up a second time – which was exactly what happened when he threw himself on the mattress with all of the finesse he didn’t have.

“You fucking piece of -.”

“You really gotta work on your cursing repertoire. It’s growing redundant.” John cut him short.

“I’m never bringing you back here.”

John could barely make those last words out, as James had borrowed his head back in his pillow. The only light in the room came from the small cracks between the curtains, tracing long lines on the rumpled sheets. John put his hand on the back of James’ neck, rubbing slightly and feeling wonderfully content when he felt James relax under his touch, leaning almost imperceptibly into it. He continued for a while, before gathering enough courage to say what he was sure would break the spell:

“I’m fairly certain Miranda wouldn’t forgive you if you did that.” Flint’s tensed immediately under his hand, and John added: “Do you ever make an effort to have breakfast with her?”

“I didn’t tell you about our story for you to start thinking you can tell me how it is that I am supposed to be living my life.”

“No, you didn’t, but I’m claiming that right for myself anyway, because, _really,_ someone’s gotta tell you you’re being an ass with that poor woman.”

“Miranda is anything but a “poor woman”.” James huffed at the preposterousness of the expression as applied to her.

“Most certainly. But you will not tell me that I imagined how happy she genuinely was to have _someone_ keep her company for her meal while you were just borrowing yourself in your room.”

John knew he had touched upon the right nerve when James stopped debating the validity of John’s point and started instead defending himself:

“We have breakfast together the days I don’t have class. And I see her the rest of the time.” As far as excuses went, it was a miserable one, both in form and content.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“You’re beyond annoying, John. Really.”

John sighed. He was indeed fairly certain this was as much as he would manage to push James on the subject without it turning around to bite him.

“Fair enough.”

John nudged James to turn on his back, trying to extirpate him from the sheets. When his chest finally became accessible, John started kissing his nipples, teasing.

“Let me make up for it then.” James was writhing under his tongue, and John was pretty sure he didn’t give a shit about why John what doing what he was doing so long as he didn’t stop.

“We really don’t have time for that.” James told him anyway, as unconvincing as he had previously been.

“First, you’re underestimating my efficiency.” He slid James’ underwear to his knees, and found him indeed already half-hard. “Second, I can’t be late if the teacher’s late too.”

 

-

 

Max was the one who knocked on his door that Wednesday, telling him dinner was ready. He didn’t ask her about the aftermath of Sunday’s events, but she volunteered the information herself.

“I told Anne. And I told her to explain to Jack. I didn’t want to tell him myself.”

“I think it’s better they know. That way if yo have a panic attack if you’re with them… I’m sure they’ll do their best.” Before she could contradict him, he added: “That doesn’t make you a burden, to anyone. Let’s not have this conversation again, alright?”

She smiled at him and finally nodded.

“Because I have something else I need to show you, and it will make for a much more agreeable conversation.”

His eyes and expressions were full of a mischief she hadn’t seen in him for quite a while now.

He showed her the exams subject he’d found, and he didn’t have to give an explanation for her to connect the dots.

“How…?” She was awed.

“Where, would be the better question. Copy room of the administration floor. They were forgotten. I’d blame Dufresnes, but I highly doubt it was him. This is just teachers being stupid. Flint included. So, what can you make of those?”

She had taken his phone from his hands, swiping right and left reading the questions.

“They seem legit.”

“They are.”

She gave him his cellphone back.

“Did you already call Muldoon to have him find you a job for the summer?” The question was exactly what he’d hoped she’d say.

“Nope.” He smiled.

“Good. Perfect.” She was ecstatic. “Because neither you nor I are going to have to work this summer. Thanks to _you_.”

She was giggling, her face alternating between doe-eyed awe and disbelief as she stared at his phone and then at his face. They stared at each other for a while, almost not believing what was happening, before Max suddenly seemed to recall something.

“There’s a chance Flint – or someone – realizes.” She warned him.

“If we sell this to the right people, no one’s supposed to realize anything.” John corrected her.

“There’s still a chance that people figure out that some stupid people seem to have very oddly studied for exactly the right questions. And there’s a chance Flint comes to hear of it. And maybe connect the dots.”

“Well, for a start, we’re not going to sell _his_ subject, that’s for sure. I still genuinely care about my life, and that would point to me or Dufresnes too clearly and I don’t have the cleanest of records already.”

For a second, he wondered if she wasn’t going to object at the prospect of the money lost because of that choice, but she didn’t.

“Fair enough. But even the rest – maybe they wouldn’t be able to prove it, but they’d talk about it. I mean, it can happen. It happened last time I sold some subjects – we weren’t friends back then, so you wouldn’t remember, but they asked some of the students who had surprisingly good grades about it. Telling them it wouldn’t change their grades, but they’d like to catch those who had sold them the subjects. They didn’t, or I wouldn’t be here, but -. Shit can happen. People can always talk.”

“Max. Are you _really_ trying to discourage me to do this?”

“I don’t know, Silver. Lately it almost looked like he’d managed to turn you into a somehow decent human being.”

He was surprised to hear her say that – it had never crossed his mind that his behaviour might have changed one way or another since he had started his affair with Flint. Though it was true he had been oblivious to many other aspects of his life because of it.

“Nah. Still the same whiny shithead you love.”

She assessed him for a few moments.

“Ok, leave this in my hands. Is 50/50, okay for you?”

“Only if I really don’t have to do _anything_ on the selling part.”

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

 

-

 

“What will you be doing this summer, John?”

Miranda had overdone herself that day, preparing three different dishes for breakfast, including some pain perdu John couldn’t get enough of. Ever since he had told her he wasn’t a cook because he liked cooking but simply for the job it got him, she hadn’t let him raise a single finger to help her, except for watching for stuff not to burn while she busied herself elsewhere.

“Looking for a job right now.”

Despite Max’s insistence that she would get them enough money for the both of them to not have to work during the summer, John had actually already called Muldoon, asking him to keep an eye out for a cook position in one of the hotels John had worked in for the last three summers. Who knew.

“As a cook?”

“Yeah. It’s the most convenient. Probably in a hotel, or a motel. Where I’ve worked in the past I could sleep on the job, so I wouldn’t have to spare money for rent.”

“Is there no one you’ll be going home to?”

By now, he had already understood that Miranda was very much familiar with whatever parts of his story Featherstone had shared with Flint to have John not get expelled, so it was easy to understand where her tiptoeing came from when asking that question. People always felt unnecessarily uneasy whenever he talked about the aspects of his life he’d taken to calling _the poor orphan boy_ story. He had almost expected Miranda to be above that – but it turned out even she had her faults.

“I’ll probably visit my last guardian for a while in August – Randall’s his name. I lived with him for two years before joining Underhill. But two years hardly make for a home, do they?”

She just nodded, not catching his eye.

“Am I unnecessarily extrapolating when I assume you and James haven’t talked about what would happen after the end of the semester?”

John felt himself freeze at the abruptness of the question. Where did come from? He tried to quickly regain his composure, hiding his discomfort with a strained laugh.

“No, you’re not. Though he would take it a little less nicely than I if you said it that way to his face.”

“I’m not talking with him right now. I’m asking you; what is _your_ outlook?”

He’d grown less intimated by her presence with time, but this line of questioning was making him feel as anxious as the first time he had met her. Her questions had implications he would rather see disappear before they took a life of their own in her mind -.

“I appreciate your company a lot Miranda, as I do James’s when he’s not being a lunatic ass. But I believe the end of the semester is the extent to which we’re both willing to have this arrangement go.”

Her eyes were cast down on the cake she was carefully slicing in equal parts, so he couldn’t read the reaction to his last sentence on her face. His assumption that whatever _this_ was would end at the end of the semester wasn’t baseless – he would be out of town for three months, and James and Miranda spent their summer in a vacation house on the coast when they wouldn’t be travelling around Europe. It was fully and implicitly agreed upon for him – he didn’t really understand where he question was coming from then.

“Maybe you should check your beliefs against his, then.”

Her words sent a chill coursing through his spine, but he remained silent.

 

After Miranda left for work, he didn’t go back to James’ bedroom, instead roaming around the house, trying to process what she had said.

He had always wondered if he could find a photo of Thomas somewhere – so far, he’d never seen what the man had looked like. He was pretty certain that any place where James spent time wouldn’t be the place for that – from what he’d seen, James could still barely bear to hear Thomas’ name uttered out loud. A photo would have been unthinkable. However, Miranda, with her holding on to her wedding ring, seemed to be the type to at least keep a reminder of her husband where James wouldn’t have to come across it.

The only place in the house where Miranda could do that was her study – John had never been there. It was next to her bedroom, further down the hallway after Flint’s, and he found the door unlocked. He was still surprised at the extent these people had gone to in welcoming him to their house with unchecked and unfettered trust.

The black piano was the first thing which caught his attention – shiny and new, its lid up. Books and music sheets were scattered around the place amongst a formidable amount of flowers and tiny apartment plants – he froze where he was for a second, taken aback by how profoundly intimate the little room was. He almost closed the door and pretended he had never set foot there – but after a few seconds of awe at the quietness of the place, he didn’t retreat, having already caught a glimpse of what he had been looking for.

The photo atop the piano featured all three of them on a boat, the kind John had only seen in TV shows about super rich people in the Hamptons. James looked dashingly younger – his face almost unrecognisable without all the creases worry never allowed him to hide now. Miranda had barely aged a day, only fashion had changed and he almost laughed at the outdated yellow of her dress.

Thomas was amazingly beautiful too. He was the exact physical opposite of John, which brought him some form of relief. He felt more comfortable knowing they looked nothing alike – James couldn’t be comparing them when there was nothing that was possibly comparable about them.

The photo breathed of a quiet happiness, the kind John had never known in his whole life. It was no wonder Miranda held onto it.

 

James woke up half an hour later and found John sitting in the kitchen, still eating some crumbs.John wasn’t surprised to feel him put a hand on his shoulder as a silent _good morning._

“You didn’t come back to bed.” James told him after he’d sipped some of his tea, which water John had just boiled again so he’d find it hot.

“How could I?” John answered, gesturing towards the food in front of him.

James laughed, conceding with a small twinge of his eyes and an inclination of his head that the table looked indeed enticing enough for John not to come back.

“Miranda asked me my thoughts on what would happen to us after the end of the semester.” John hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but there it was.

James didn’t answer right away, obviously taken slightly aback. He began by putting his mug back on the table, before sitting very slowly in front of him. John could almost see him setting his thoughts together in a comprehensible fashion.

“She meant – she means well. She doesn’t necessarily realize the different implications of her question.” James began, with a tone of voice suspiciously close to the one he used to give class.

“It’s okay, it didn’t obfuscate me. I was just -.”

“Wait, John.” James interrupted him. “This is not a conversation Miranda should be forcing us to have. Neither is it a conversation I wish to have with you as long as you are my student, and I am your teacher.”

So James had actually assumed there would _still_ be something to talk about after the end of the semester. John tried his best not to let James see how puzzled the confirmation of what Miranda had said made him, and how that confusion was making him somehow panic.

“Don’t think I don’t realize how imbalanced _this_ is, however much I like to tell myself you’re fully consenting and in a position where that consent actually means -.”

“I fucking _am,_ for fuck’s sake.” John cut him short. He really didn't want to have this conversation again.

“We both know it’s more complicated than that. I still have to grade you at the end of the semester.”

“Listen, I understand what you’re saying, don’t believe I don’t. But what you’re talking about – it would be a problem if I still sucked in your class, but I don’t.” John interrupted, overriding James’ opposition by keeping the words flowing. “Trust me, you won’t have to take into account the quality of my night-time performances to assess my final papers. I’ve actually fucking _studied_ this semester because of this whole mess. I even read _Voltaire,_ for Christ’s sake!”

James laughed at that one, and the tension in the room eased a little.

“Alright. That’s a fair point.” James conceded. “However, it is perfectly fine by me if we proceed in the same fashion we have done so far, and that, until the end of the semester.”

“Meaning not talking about anything that’s not vital to fucking?”

“That’s one way to put it, yes.”

That was finally something John felt okay having to deal with.

 

-

 

Max picked up the phone after the third ring.

“Something the matter?” She said.

“Statistically, what are our chances of getting caught?” He asked point-blank.

“Getting caught? By the administration directly?”

“Hum.”

“Well, if I do my job properly, none. That’s what I’m here for, remember? Taking up 50 percent of some shit that’s entirely your finding? To turn what you’ve given me into unrecognisable stuff that people would still pay for.”

“Alright. But you said Flint -.”

“Well, yes. Teachers might realize something’s off, without having the possibility to prove it unless one of the person I’ll be selling it to spills the beans. I’m choosing carefully – but security on that matter I can never guarantee a hundred percent.”

“And Flint -.”

“Well, teachers talk, if you hadn’t noticed. If Flint hears some teachers have suspicions somebody found their papers, papers they print in the copy room where you’ve spent three hours a week for the last four months -. I don’t know, maybe I’m overestimating his deduction skills. But yeah, I can’t guarantee you shit on that one.”

He remained silent, fidgeting with one of the first dandelions of spring he’d found next to the bench he was sitting on.

“Are you changing your mind?” Max finally asked after the silence had stretched on for too long.

He knew, at that moment, that he could. That she wouldn’t begrudge him, though it would mean that she’d have to work during the summer – the same way he would have to. He also knew that _this_ was ridiculous. Even if Flint learned, and realized, and connected all the fucking dots – he couldn’t have him expelled, not with what John and him had been up to for the last months. He didn't consider the other implications of Flint finding out.

Maybe it should have made him feel sick to consider using their relationship as his shield – it did, to a certain extent. But if he had that money, he wouldn’t need to slum in a dirty motel for half his summer, trying to earn enough to enjoy at least a week of real holiday with Billy and his friends in August.

However much Miranda liked to make John think she knew everything, she hadn’t been there when Flint had told him that half the appeal of what they had was about the thrill of fucking _a_ student. Any student. Not _him_.

That last realization made the trick.

“No. No, I’m not. Go ahead.” He finally answered.

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. The story is going to go in a sensibly different direction after this chapter... but we're globally nearing the last arc. I've had such a beautiful response to this so far, and it means so much, because I've never written something so lengthy, and this fandom means the world to me. So, yeah, thanks to everyone who left a comment or a kudo <3 
> 
> Ongi: allez, j'arrête de te faire chier. C'est posté ;)

* * *

 

“ _Whoever blushes is already guilty._ ” - Jean-Jacques Rousseau

* * *

 

James had told John very early on that May would make it difficult for them to see each other regularly. It was mainly because of the exams he’d have to start preparing, and correcting, beginning with his undergraduates – but also because it was the same on Miranda’s side.

John’s immediate reaction had been utter relief. It gave him, at least for a while, some space away from James and Miranda and the emotional involvement that was required of him when it came to the relationship he had with them – an emotional involvement he liked to regularly remind himself he had never asked for.

The dandelions John had marvelled at when they had first appeared at the beginning of April were now so obnoxiously present he’d have felt foolish picking one up. He hadn’t realized how fast a month could go by.

He and Jacob and Billy had stopped going to the gym, instead running in the park now that the weather was so amazingly enticing. John had to conjure imaginary one-night stands to explain to them the very visible marks James left on parts of his body he could no longer hide under high-necked t-shirts. They were both oblivious to the artificiality of his answers, not picking at all on the fact that it was a tiny bit strange that John would be suddenly making a collection of one-night stands when it had never been a habit of his.

But as May began and James grew increasingly burdened with his classes, there were less and less marks on John’s body.

 

-

 

He and James had sneaked to his office for a very hurried make out session for lunch – James was obviously struggling not to take John’s pants off, but they _really_ didn’t have time. It was beyond John why they would subject themselves to such unfulfilling teasing – but he’d have plenty of time to regret it later. For now, he was content to have James’ hips trapped between his legs.

“Do you want to come home tonight?” James asked as they were parting.

“Huh?”

“I can make an exception. I could really use the reprieve right now.” It was said with a tone of exhaustion that made John believe it wasn’t just about taking care of the end of the semester. But he didn’t ask further about what James would be truly taking a reprieve from. However, he thought best to say:

“Miranda has work too, I don’t want to bother.”

“Don’t worry about her – her suggestion.”

John beamed.

 

-

 

John couldn’t quite believe he had ever taken _this_ for granted. How could he have not realized he’d miss it this much once it was gone? Now, all he could do was instruct James to keep still, sitting on the edge of the bed, as he took his teacher’s clothes off piece by piece while standing between his parted legs.

“This isn’t fair.” James told him, once John had removed everything he had been wearing above the waist. John was staring hungrily at James’ chest, tracing smooth lines on his pale skin.

“You must turn into a tomato in the summer.” John said, totally out of topic. He was still dressed entirely.

“And water is wet. What is your point?”

“No point. No point at all.”

John bent over to kiss James’ chest, closed-mouthed and reverent. James didn’t say anything as John started unbuckling his belt, instead weaving his fingers in John’s hair, gently cradling his head.

“Have I ever told you how much of a surprising discovery it was to realize you’re not half the shithead you pretend to be?”

John stopped what he was doing, raising his head to meet James’ oddly endeared stare.

“I have no idea if that was a compliment or an insult.”

“Neither, just a simple observation.”

John cocked one eyebrow: “And was I supposed to provide an answer?”

“No, not really. You can just… go back to what you were doing.”

John gave up on trying to understand, sliding James’ jeans and underwear off his legs in one go, before pushing him to lay down on the bed. James propped himself up on his elbows to watch John undress, glancing appreciatively, and John was soon naked, straddling James’ hips, their cocks shallowly brushing.

“Is this enough? For you?” John asked. He had wanted to wait for the right moment to ask that question, but well, it turned out this was it. It wasn’t like they were going to have many more, after all. “If you were used to two people – I thought that just having this… isn’t it underwhelming?” He explained further.

James’ brows creased, and he actually considered the question for a moment.

“You keep blindsiding me.” John was slightly puzzled at that answer. “When I told you about that, you didn’t even _flinch_.”

As if to demonstrate once again how much John didn’t give a fuck, he shrugged again at the mere implication that he _should_ have given a fuck. James smiled.

“Though, to answer your question, there’s no enough or not enough. I’m not comparing anything.” After a beat, he added: “Though if you want to join Miranda and I, I can -.”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t. Oh my God, shut up.” James startled back at the forcefulness of John’s reaction, who had almost jumped away. “I thought it was pretty obvious by now to the both of you that I have mummy issues bigger than this fucking house. Don’t -.” He didn’t want to put words on it, so he just repeated: “Don’t.”

James took all of it laughing, bringing John’s mouth to his for a deep kiss.

“Just a passing thought. We can resume now.”

 

-

 

Miranda was already eating when John joined her for breakfast. He had slightly overslept, instead of immediately getting up when he’d heard noises coming from the kitchen, and she was almost done eating. James’ words from last night turned around in his head – he _really_ couldn’t imagine sharing a bed with her, while also not being able _not_ to consider just how beautiful and enticing the prospect could have been.

“Good morning.” He said as he poured himself some lukewarm coffee.

“Good morning.” She looked exhausted, indeed. She was paler in a way even her make up couldn’t hide. John wondered what the two of them were dealing with that exhausted them to that extent.

He drank his coffee as she finished eating, and the silence was – as always with her – particularly enjoyable. He was startled when, out of nowhere, James suddenly appeared in the doorway, still half-asleep. James poured himself tea before joining the two of them in their quiet silence. When she was done, and after she’d put her plate in the sink, she went back to the table and John enquired, curious about the matter ever since James had told him that Miranda too was overworked at the conservatory:

“What exams do people have in a conservatory?”

“Well, they have to make demonstrations at the end of the semester – not to their own teachers, but to others. So I have to prepare my students. And, like for everything and everyone, they only truly get to it a month or so before the final date.”

“Obviously.” John laughed.

“That makes me realize – would you want to come see the final demonstrations? Some are public. It’ll be at the beginning of June. My students will be playing.”

John caught James chastising her silently for such a bold proposal, and it made him all the more eager to kindly decline:

“I don’t understand shit to classical music, I’d just be a waste of space.”

“Well, first, I have a lot of thoughts on the topic of people having to _understand_ something to enjoy it, but what I don’t have right now is enough time to share all of those thoughts.” John breathed in to interrupt her but she raised a magnanimous finger in his face and he remained quiet: “Second, just think about it. It’s the first weekend of June.”

“Miranda -.” James began to interrupt her again, but John had found the opening he needed in her last sentence and he was the first to speak:

“Oh, if it’s the first weekend, I really can’t. It’s the gay pride – only unmissable highlight of my yearly social calendar. It’s too bad you guys won’t -.”

He knew he’d fucked something up when the sound of James’ mug smashing on the table was almost enough to convince John he’d broken it. Mouth agape, he stared in utter incomprehension as James got up and left the room, his tense shoulders the only thing John had left at his disposal to understand whatever it was that had taken hold of his teacher.

John kept on staring at the doorway. Reviewing what he’d just said, he found nothing that would warrant such a reaction. He finally turned around towards Miranda, only to be dumbfounded even more at the sight of her rubbing her nose, tears obviously pooling in her eyes.

“What the fuck did I do?” He asked, powerless.

He extended an arm towards her when he saw a few tears suddenly coursing on her cheeks, taking along some of her perfectly applied make up. She gripped his hand for a second, before letting go, standing up and going to bend at the sink, her back to him. After a few moments during which the sound of her sobbing filled John with more and more dread, she turned around, biting her lip, still avoiding his stare.

“I’ll take you back to the campus. I think it’s better.” She blinked twice, thrice.

“Is it what I…? I don’t understand.”

“He and I -.” She interrupted herself, rubbing her nose once more in what he determined to be a nervous tic of hers. “We’re incredibly tired and strained lately. Thomas’ father – he’s being -. And -.” She finally looked at him. Seeing his panicked face seemed to bring her back to her senses. “You did nothing wrong, John. It had nothing to do with you. It’s related to Thomas. It’s just – it was a thing they had. The two of them. It’s just… It’s not your fault we’re basket cases.”

 _It was a thing, they had. The two of them_. John thought it through – the gay pride. It explained many things, suddenly – just as much as it created some more questions. Because of how easy it was to with Flint and Miranda, he had never considered the implications of them being of a different generation than him – especially regarding those kind of things.

“I left my stuff in his room. Do I…?”

But she didn’t let him finish.

“No, I’ll go take them. Wait for me here.”

John half expected to start hearing them yelling, but the silence that stretched between the moment she left and the moment she came back with his phone and jacket was much worse.

 

Her car smelled of lavender and worn leather. John had planned on sleeping some more after breakfast, but his plans were now ruined and he was exhausted. He hadn’t even been able to finish his coffee.

After they had driven for five minutes in silence, she stopped at the corner of a street, in the middle of seemingly nowhere.

“Sorry, I just have to fix my make up.”

She did so as John stared at the few people already up and moving at this hour. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the sky was already lighting up, a quiet grey creeping from the East. Some old woman was walking a very stupid looking dog, and he wondered why on Earth she would do that at this hour of the day.

“Before Thomas, James wasn’t… okay, with himself. Thomas led him there, gradually – led him to acceptance. It took a long time before he coaxed James to go with him to the Pride, back where we used to live. After Thomas’ death -. Well, I couldn’t much be the same for him. He partly folded back on himself. I hadn’t realized it had been… to this extent.” She sighed, placing her hands back on the steering wheel with so much fatigue John almost reached out to provide some comfort.

He didn’t.

True, he wouldn’t have assumed James –. But he’d started suspecting something was off when they went to dinner and he’d seen how he kept his distances in public.

“It’s okay. I understand we’re not… in the same generation regarding that kind of stuff. I had figured that much already.”

“If it hadn’t been 6 in the morning, and he hadn’t been so tired, it wouldn’t have gone this way. We’ve been dealing with some demons of our own, lately, with Thomas’ father… I’m sorry. He’ll probably apologize too. You have nothing to do with how he reacted.”

“It’s okay, Miranda. I don’t -.” He didn’t know he didn’t _what_ , so he just repeated: “It’s okay.”

“And I’m sorry for my reaction too.” She added. “I know that I’m overall faring better than James, but that’s not a very high bar to top, is it?”

“Nope, not really.” It wasn’t necessarily the most appropriate of jokes to tell at that moment, but it made her laugh anyway.

 

-

 

He arrived at the campus a little bit before 7 am, which left him some time to crash on his bed, hoping to catch back on some sleep. It wasn’t like he had had a tremendous amount of it last night. Jacob was already awake, cramming for his exams. He looked – rightfully – surprised to see John barge in the room at this hour.

“You got kicked out tonight?” He greeted him.

John stared blankly at him for a few seconds, remembering he had covered up his sleep overs at James’ with a string of imaginary one night stands. He wondered how come no one called him out on the obvious bullshit, especially when James and him had had a pretty regular schedule for the last three months. But, well, neither Jacob nor Billy had shown any interest in forcing him to talk about something he had made clear he didn’t want to discuss.

“Hum.”

He jumped in bed, face in the pillow. His hand itched, eager to grab his phone and text James, to ask if he was okay – or even apologize, despite knowing full well he had nothing to apologize for. But it was the intent that mattered, after all.

“You wanna talk about it?” Jacob asked after a few more grumblings coming from John.

“Talk about what?”

“Your boyfriend? Or girlfriend for that matter. The person you don’t wanna say a word about to your best friends.” Well, maybe they hadn’t completely bought into his bullshit after all.

“You bunch of useless fucks aren’t my best friends.” John answered, but Jacob took it as the gratuitous joke it was.

“As you wish. Just stop assuming we’re dumb.”

“I’m not…” John began to justify himself. It felt weird to have this conversation with Jacob right now, as it was probably going to be to finally have it with Billy. “Ok. It’s just complicated. Don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t. But Billy does. Just for your information.”

Another thing John really didn’t have time to deal with. He sighed.

“Thanks. For the concern. It’ll be fine.”

 

-

 

He texted James on his way to class. He knew he was going to see him in five minutes, but really wanted to at least show that he was concerned, which he wouldn’t be able to do in front of a class of thirty students.

_I’m sorry for this morning. I didn’t know. Miranda said it was best she took me to Uni. Hope you’re okay._

Nothing Miranda wouldn’t have already explained to him if John had understood anything to how their relationship worked, but he still thought it best to emphasize how utterly clueless he had been that morning. James didn’t answer, and barely smiled at him when he entered the class.

“You look like shit.” Billy greeted John when he finally came to sit at his side.

 

-

 

“Eleanor asked me if she could come to the Pride with us.” Max told him that Wednesday.

“Eurgh. I thought she’d given up on her rebellious phase.” She’d come with them until the break up with Max, and John had always read it as another tentative on her behalf to piss off her conservative family. But Max was still staring at him, waiting for another reaction. “Well, you’re the one who can put a veto – she dumped _you_ , not me. I don’t really care. Anyway, you know I plan on getting high and drunk – preferably simultaneously, not in any specific order. I don’t really care who’s with us.”

“Well, actually, I already told her she could come. The thing is – I also convinced Anne to come.”

“That’s much better news. I love Anne.”

“She can’t stand your smartass antics, you know that?” Max sternly reminded him.

“That’s exactly why I love her. If she punches me in the face one day, I’m sure I won’t be able to help it and I’ll fall in love.”

“What’s up with you? You sound dumber than what you got me used to.” She was clearly annoyed with him and the directions he couldn’t help but take the conversation. He shrugged.

He couldn’t really tell her that his stupid antics were compensating for how he was trapped in a relationship with two adults who carried behind them ghosts big enough to populate Eleanor’s manor. So he just threw the ball back in her corner:

“You’re just spending too much time with adults, that’s why I sound stupider than usual. I promise I’m just being my regular self.”

She took a deep and very annoyed breath at that, closing her eyes for a second, before resuming as if he hadn’t said anything:

“Anyway. Your stupidity is not the point of this conversation. It’s rather that I’ll need you if things go out of hand between Anne and Eleanor.”

“Are you kidding me?” He interjected. “You do realize those two scare me way too fucking much for me to even _think_ about intervening if they start going at each other’s throat?”

“Well, then you’ve got two weeks to start working on your fear management issues. Because I’ll probably not be able to deal with them both and will leave one with you if I’m taking care of the other.”

“Why aren’t you recruiting Idelle for that?”

“She told me to fuck off when I asked her.”

John rolled his eyes, dumbfounded. “You really think I’ll be able to manage something Idelle signed off from?”

“You don’t have a choice. Stop whining now. Anyway, I’ll only need you if one of them starts behaving stupidly. With a little bit of luck, Anne will just bare her fangs at Eleanor and Eleanor will act all haughty and they’ll both leave it at that.”

“Sure. Fantastic. I’m sure it’ll go exactly like that.”

 

-

 

Even after James had ignored John during the class that immediately followed the breakfast episode, John waited for him to make the first step. He was only worried insofar that he had counted on those last few weeks before the exams to spend what he had imagined to be the last moments they would have together.

Not having to talk to James for a long time, not having to try to orient his life towards their moments together, suddenly made John realize how much he’d let their thing creep up and almost take over all of his life. He learned that Charlotte and Logan had broken up the week before – it was beyond him to understand how he could not have heard about something that big the second it had happened.

Despite his best intentions, he had to admit he had grown oblivious to the rest of his other social circles. Ever since he and James had started fucking, he had kept on going to his usual parties and gatherings, at Idelle’s and Billy’s – but suddenly he realized that he hadn’t truly _been_ there. When Idelle tried to talk about him about the feminist roundtable she had organized last week, which he had actually _fucking attended_ , he had nothing to say about it. She looked almost worried about him.

 

It took two weeks without any news before James sent him a message asking if he could call. John left his room, going downstairs in the little green area in front of his dormitory building to pick up.

“Yes?”

Some time passed before James started talking, and John began to anticipate how difficult it was going to be to sustain a conversation without the visual help of his teacher’s facial expressions to steward his answers.

“I thought an apology for my behaviour might be overdue.”

John had honestly almost forgotten about the incident. Instead, he had begun to worry that the exams for which him and Max had already sold the subjects to had happened earlier than he had anticipated. It was actually a relief to realize James was still worried about _that_.

“It’s okay, really. No one’s fault.”

“I’m fairly certain it’s mine, actually.”

“Really, it’s okay.” John insisted. It was almost growing awkward.

“I won’t be able to see you before a little while, though. To extend my apologies in person.”

It was as much as James could do in terms of flirting and John appreciated the intention.

“I’ll manage.”

“Alright. I hate phone calls. Miranda forced me.”

“I had guessed that much.” He heard James laugh, but John didn’t want to -.

James hang up before John had managed to determine exactly what it was that he didn’t want.

He stayed a little bit outside after the call ended.

 

-

 

The parade was loud, and vibrant, and John was following the box with the loudest loudspeakers, Anne on his heels, her nose pinched in obvious discontent.

“Isn’t it wondrously fun?” He yelled in her ear. She just threw a murderous glance at him, turning around to stare at Eleanor and Max, walking a few feet behind them alongside Idelle, Eme, and Billy.

God, was he already wonderfully wasted – he didn’t care one bit.

“So, do we just walk around?” Anne asked him. She had to repeat her question three times, each louder than the one before, for him to catch what she was saying.

“We’re not walking; we’re having fun.”

“That’s not my version of fun.”

“Then why did you fucking come?”

“To make Max happy.”

John sighed, accepting the soundly founded reasoning at the origin of her pissed-off expression. He turned towards Billy, figuring that, after all, Max had indeed put John in charge of Anne’s well-being during the parade and that he’d better start taking his job seriously. He mouthed “ _pill!”_ and Billy didn’t need subtitles to throw a tiny plastic envelope at him.

“Here, then.” John told Anne. “At least let’s make the best out of what we’ve got. Lemons and lemonade – y’know.” He rambled some more while she stared suspiciously at the pill he was presenting her with, before shrugging and swallowing it with a gulp of the alcohol they had at hand.

Max was still engrossed in her discussion with Eleanor. Eme and Idelle were idly passing around a bottle of something John had prepared – he could not remember exactly what he had put in it to get it to be such a shiny and vibrant red.

Turning his attention back to Anne, he took the freedom to grab her cap, which overshadowed half her face, turning it around. She almost bit his hand as he did so, but then he asked:

“Do you want to get on my shoulders? The view’s probably nice.”

She was about to tell him to fuck off but he had already put a knee to the ground and they couldn’t block the flow of people for too long – she was stuck, and Max was loudly encouraging her, and the second he stood up with Anne on his shoulders, he felt her meanly pinching the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. Fair enough.

He started chanting whatever it was people were chanting around him, and was glad to realize after a while that Anne had caught up to the song too. He turned around to see Max beaming at him, and he figured he had just earned himself a few good points.

He didn’t remember much of anything afterwards anyway.

 

-

 

Since the phone call, John knew that a few of the exams they’d sold the questions to had rolled around. And then, more days went by. Flint sent him another hurried text apology for not having the time to talk or see him, to which he barely answered more than an _ok_ , growing more and more nervous by the day.

During the last three classes he had with Flint, he smiled, and behaved as usual, although looking a bit more tired because he was actually pulling all-nighters for once.

His own final exam had come and gone in the blink of an eye. He knew he had aced it.

By then, all the exams they’d sold subjects to had gone by.

 

He almost made his phone fall off when he received a text from Flint as he was sitting on the grass, enjoying one of the last days on campus with Idelle. They’d been lazily smoking, and his heart skipped a beat as he opened the message.

It turned out that the text followed exactly the same pattern he had grown used to during the semester, meaning a time and place – except the time was off. It was during Flint’s office hours.

He didn’t tell Max. On a certain level, he didn’t even tell himself. Though, by then, he knew. He was too smart not to have always known.

 

-

 

James told him to close the door behind him. Déjà-vu had never been a feeling John appreciated – at that moment, it was almost choking him up.

This office had come to be associated with so many things, from the first day -. It didn’t feel right that it would end there. That he’d have to sit, a breath away from a desk where he’d sucked Flint, where they’d laughed and -... 

“Remember what I asked of you, before all of this began?” James had his Professor Flint voice. Nothing of the quieter, gentle intonation John had grown used to.

It was a bad dream that had the texture of a terrible fall in the void. Flint wasn’t really looking at him – through him, would have been more accurate. John’s throat was agonizingly tight.

“Featherstone told you, I recall: honesty. That’s all I asked from you.”

John must have looked like a deer caught in headlights. It was all rushing towards him – everything he had warned himself about without being able to find the strength in himself to stop it all before it became unstoppable.

He couldn’t find an answer – any answer -, and chose instead to cast his eyes to the floor, in the hope that escaping Flint’s stare would help him calm down. It didn’t.

“That’s still what I’m asking from you, John. Honesty.”

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. It was -. He wasn’t brave, or straightforward, or decent. Being honest now meant admitting to James’ face what he’d done. Being honest now meant confessing he hadn’t been honest when it had mattered. And all of it – for what?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He found little solace in the way James’ face painfully flinched when he heard how John’s voice was on the verge of breaking.

For all the times John had prided himself on having learned to read Flint’s expressions, he now felt infinitely powerless to read anything in his teacher’s demeanour. He hoped for anger – or anything that would shatter the calm demeanour with which Flint suddenly brought a paper in front of him.

John recognized it as his own final exam. His mind was blank as Flint opened a pen, drawing an A+ at the top, and slid it towards John so he could properly see it.

“I hope this will be enough to convince you of the necessary discretion I would highly appreciate coming from you going forward.”

John kept his eyes cast down on the red ink, not quite willing to understand precisely what was happening. He needed to think – to find something to tell James that would make things okay. He knew how much James was susceptible to him, to how he could talk -. Surely, there was something -. Why hadn’t he thought about what he would say before?

“Now, leave.”

John swallowed. He stood up, unable not to, and the chair raked the floor almost unbearably in the silence. At the door, he paused, hand on the handle. He breathed in twice, thrice. And then turned around. Anticipating James’ opposition, he immediately began:

“I’m not going to challenge anything you’ve just said, or done. I just want to know something.” John knew he didn’t have time to think too hard about it, because James would probably interrupt him if he did, so he immediately asked: “What you had wanted to tell me – the conversation for when we wouldn’t be teacher and student anymore. What had been the plan?”

John saw the way James’ face twitched, and how he cast his eyes to the floor, taking a few moments to collect himself.

“Nothing that still bears saying.”

 

-

 

All the hurt John wanted to feel at the thought that Flint had just bought him out of his life with a grade was overshadowed by the thought that he’d been the one responsible for it. Him, and only him. He had known from the beginning of Flint’s intransigent approach to morals, and ethics. How much he cherished and valued integrity in the people he had to deal with. Wasn’t it John’s own lack of any of it that had started everything in the first place? And yet… well, he had been blind.

Telling himself until the end that it didn’t matter if James were to cast him out of his life when the time came, because there would be nothing afterwards anyway.

 

Once outside Flint’s office, he made his way to the same bathroom he had come to to wash his face and check his pants countless times during the semester.

He washed his face this time too, but there were no stains he needed to check. His reflection in the mirror looked the same it had always done – he found it odd that the sudden emptiness he was engulfed into wasn’t written in his face, was invisible to the world, when it was all he thought he’d ever feel again.

Max hadn’t told him that, he realized. She knew everything – but not that.

She hadn’t known how terrible he’d feel becoming himself again.

 

-

 

There were mostly hurried goodbyes and quick packaging for John as he moved out of the dorms, one week later. It came as a surprise to no one that he’d disappear for more than a month, from mid-June to the end of July, going to work in the middle of nowhere for a while; that was what he’d done every summer since they had known him. Except Max, none of his friends could have guessed it could have been different that year.

Max had been dumbfounded when he’d told her to keep his share of the money.

And then she had been furious.

“Do you realize just how stupid, just how bullshity it is for you to grow a backbone of moral integrity now that it’s fucking _too late_?” She almost yelled at him, and he somehow understood why she was this angry. Almost.

“When did I ever make sense?”

She kept on yelling some more, but he didn’t hear any of it. She barely had time to ask of him that he give some news while away – _not like last summer_ – but they both knew that his insistence that he would didn’t mean anything.

She was right. Not taking the money wasn’t going to fix anything with James, or even Miranda for that matter – not that he could even say that’s what it was truly about. But every time he considered not having to do anything for the summer, living on the consequences of what he’d done, he felt sick.

 

-

 

He dropped his stuff at Randall’s house, spending barely a night in the poorly kept, claustrophobic home. He could only sleep on the couch because his former room had been turned into storage space for whatever Randall’s new hobby was at the moment.

“I don’t like him.” Randall told John as he was packing his bag. Mostly shirts he didn’t care about. Betsy was leisurely rubbing herself on his calf.

“It’s not true. You have nothing against Muldoon – you just don’t like me spending time with him.”

“It’s the fucking same.” Randall spit. John knew very well and very in detail where this conversation was going. They had had the same quite regularly over the last three years.

John had met Muldoon when he was fourteen, in a foster family that took them both in at the same time. Neither spent much time with those people, but John kept close ties with Muldoon, even after they left the foster system, and after Randall had managed to have him sent to Underhill Uni, when Muldoon had just started running around on informal jobs. Randall had given John a ladder, a way out – and every time John spent his summer following Muldoon around, in the sort of life he could have had had he not met him, Randall got scared. It was mostly legitimate – but John didn’t want to consider the alternative.

“Why don’t you stay in here? I found you two fucking jobs. One of them doesn’t even involve cooking, for fuck’s sake. I’ll free up space in your goddamn room if that’s the problem. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Randall, please don’t do this.” John implored.

He was tired, and all he could think about, all he wanted, was to go spend time within a world that held no resemblance to this one. Stop feeling like he felt at that moment. Randall must have understood, somehow, that something else was at stake, for he stopped himself from interrupting John again.

“You know I just… want to go. For a while. I’ll come back.” John added.

Randall stared at him blankly before saying: “That sounds even more like a lie than what you bullshit me with usually.”

John sighed. “Randall, we call each other two times every six months when I’m at Uni. You’ll manage the summer without news from me every day – and I’ll be back at the beginning of August.”

“When you’re at your fucking University, I don’t have to worry about getting a call from someone asking me to pay your fucking bail.”

That wasn’t a memory John liked to think about very much.

“I’ll make an effort this time, alright? I just can’t stay here all summer. I can’t.”

And with that, John left without another word, bypassing Randall’s still form at the door.

 

-

 

The motel was shit. That had been half the point. But he had a bed, a bathroom he shared with Muldoon, and there was a little room for the personnel, with a pool table and music.

After his first day of work, as he sipped the shitty beer he’d come to associate with Muldoon’s tastes, a little bit of the distress he’d been wallowing into since he had last seen James eased. As his surroundings grew more and more blurred, the noise louder and louder from his now new co-workers, he began to sneak again into his former skin.

It wasn’t really like going home – he had no idea what feeling at home was like to begin with – but at that moment, it helped him feel slightly better.

Here, no one expected him to be anything but the least he could possibly be. Actually, it felt better than _better_ – it felt liberating. So when Muldoon inadvertently made John’s phone fall off the table, John didn’t even blink. If the screen hadn’t already been shattered, maybe it would have survived – as it was, there was no screen left when he picked it up from the floor.

“Sorry, man, fuck!”

John waived dismissively at Muldoon, opening the back of the phone to get his SIM card out.

“It was dead anyway.” He said before throwing the remnants of the phone in the nearest half-empty glass of beer.

He’d ask someone for a phone, in a week or two, so he could tell Max he was fine. She had already sent him messages he hadn’t answered.

But for now, it wasn’t necessary.

 

 

 

 


	8. Interlude I: James Flint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have wanted to write this interlude ever since chapter 3, when the idea got into my head after I realized on how many things John was plain wrong because of how little information he had...  
> This was a blast to write; this chapter (twice as long as my usual ones) killed me in more ways than one, but God was it rewarding.
> 
> I want to thank my beta Ongi with the warmest thank you I can imagine. She's the one who turned the original mess that were some parts of his chapter into something comprehensible. Tu te tapes des paquets de 8000 mots en anglais au plus grand des calmes et tu me donnes les meilleurs conseils au monde. Je t'aime à l'infini.
> 
> ~Some, j'ai des raisons de croire que ce chapitre te plaira!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has left a comment or a kudo, it's the most amazing encouragement ever <3

“ _There is no kind of harassment that a man may not inflict on a woman with impunity in civilized societies._ ” - Diderot.

* * *

**Interlude I: James Flint**

 

After talking with Featherstone and Gates, James had come to the conclusion that what he was about to do wasn’t the right thing. Maybe John deserved dismissal from the school, maybe he didn’t – that was no longer the question. James only knew that he didn’t want to be the villain in that particular story, now that he knew some its content.

Miranda sneered, discontent, when James told her that he wouldn’t be going through with his expulsion scheme. They were sharing the dinner he had prepared and that she didn’t seem to like very much.

“I understand you identify yourself with his story.” She finally told him. “I do. But lack of moral character and integrity cannot be justified by a terrible childhood. It’s just not a valid excuse. If you think he plagiarized something, you tell the administration, and they deal with it. You didn’t make the rules – and it’s definitely not your job to interpret them.”

James sighed, having already anticipated her reaction. She could be incredibly blind to issues dating back to his childhood that he still felt strongly about. He understood, somehow, where that lack of understanding came from, but he chose to stand his ground.

In the end, her opposition to him forgiving Silver only helped cement his conviction that it was the right thing to do.

“Well, it’s not like you care very much about what I have to say anyway.” She concluded as she left her plate in the sink, before exiting the kitchen. Her chair was still discarded.

He had loved Miranda and Thomas with all his heart – he had cherished them beyond what words could possibly express. He had cherished their efforts in welcoming him in their house, in their lives, in their love, in their world – how they had tried to never make him feel for the privilege he never had and which they had never lived without.

But sometimes, they were just unable to see that the rigidity of their moral principles was just another manifestation of how they were incapable of understanding life experiences which hadn’t been their own.

 

-

 

When Silver kissed him, he didn’t tell her. He knew he had been at fault, that even though it had been Silver making that final step, he had been the one allowing him to do so. Even though he had tried to reassure himself in the beginning that he had done nothing to encourage it, he couldn’t escape reality. Telling himself that he had only been friendly for two conservations (maybe three, if he counted the time he had expressed commiseration at John’s bruised face while implying he could get expelled for it) wasn’t the most solid of excuses, especially faced with Silver’s explanations about his interpretation of the car ride.

He didn’t know what would be worse – if he truly hadn’t been aware of the kind of signals he had been sending, or if he had been fully aware but unwilling to stop it anyway. And that was not even getting into how the encounter had unfolded – how, for many minutes, he had seen with clarity what Silver’s intent had been, and how until the very end, he had thought he could stop it before it went too far, until the line had been crossed and his little game had become Silver’s game – and Silver’s win.

 

-

 

But then the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to indulge himself. He functioned on his instinct telling him to fuck up, _just this time_ , and the rest of his thoughts telling him not to. But the more he thought about all the reasons he shouldn’t indulge himself – the more those reasons became the own objects of his desires.

Blaming himself for entertaining the thought of entering into an affair with one of his students only lead to him admitting to himself that it was precisely _that_ which interested him.

But choosing to go back to Silver, this time, entailed him telling Miranda.

She took the information with a frustration bordering on anger. And this time there was no dish between them to give a pretence of normalcy to the scene that was playing out.

“I know I can’t provide what you need, James, but no amount of sexual frustration is worth your job. Can’t you fuck someone who’s not your student?”

The blow was perfectly calibrated to strike him where it already hurt most. He couldn’t fault her – he deserved most of its content.

“And did you consider the fact that he’s in it to make you pay for the nightmare you’ve put him through, barely a month ago?” She added, obviously exasperated.

She couldn’t have missed the way James’ face twitched nervously at her last remark. Of course, he had considered that fact. And even though he had decided that Silver was sincere when he said it wasn’t his intent to get his teacher expelled, James couldn’t entirely disregard his natural suspicion that maybe it was, still.

“I tried to get him expelled. That makes _me_ an asshole. It entails nothing about him being one too.”

She sighed, rubbing her nose. She didn’t look at him as she answered:

“Why are you trying to convince me, James? I highly doubt, given what I’ve seen of you for the last few years, that you give two fucks about my opinion.”

She got up and left the room before he could answer, and he was left to watch the night slightly settle through the window.

 

-

 

As Miranda grew more and more distant following his admission that he was choosing to go through with John, he found himself eager to balance his life around those new encounters.

Of course, James had expected that he would get endeared by John, the more he saw him – he had never been one to separate the physical and the emotional. He had also expected that guilt would regularly wash over him, an unkind reminder of the uneven power balance that existed between them. Though he took much pleasure from the secrecy, he took none in the thought that John could feel coerced, even on an unconscious level. But he dealt with that guilt as he had dealt with everything for the last few years – by storing it away with the thought that John seemed more than capable of making his own decisions.

But then, there had also been what he hadn’t expected; namely how John made everything somehow easy – or at least easier than what James had had reasons to anticipate. James had found himself giving him rendez-vous in text messages, which he had told himself he wouldn’t do. But John was quiet, and reasoned, and most of what James had figured he would have to explain to him, Silver just did on his own volition. He had melded himself in the role with disquieting ease. It made the guilt easier to shoulder.

In certain respects, James was even disappointed at how drama-free John could be. Had he been expecting John to launch him into a whirlwind of uncomfortable situations, he would have ran away after a while, for John provided none of that. He wondered if it was the same on John’s part – if the relationship felt as quiet to John as it did to him. He had no way to know.

 

-

 

He had grown used to the way the house was silent, all the time.

Sometimes, he stopped in a bakery on his way home to buy Miranda something sweet. It was random – and he did it without thinking too hard about it, knowing the place of guilt he would eventually find if he started looking. Even then, he never stayed to share what he bought with her.

It hadn’t always been like that between them.

 

-

 

After Thomas’ death, and their moving to Underhill, they fought a lot, if not all the time. They yelled, breaking things by mindlessly throwing them at one another. He had broken most of her crystal vases in that period, and she’d broken the spine of many of their books.

It somehow got worse after she found him his job. He had a very light diploma in French philosophy, something he had snatched on the side when he had been in the Coast Guard, but nothing that could justify the post she wanted him to occupy at Underhill University. He knew it all only came from her family’s connections to the Guthries’ - and to the fact that someone in her family, one time, had made a very generous donation to Underhill U. He resented her for that – and she resented him resenting her. It was a vicious circle of bitterness and destructive grief that they oriented towards each other only because they didn’t know what else to do with it.

They never admitted that they only fought because of Thomas – because he wasn’t there, but also because _he was_ ; in everything they said, and did, in everything they failed to say, and in everything they failed to do. When alive, he had been their bridge – now he was this wall, invisible and unbreachable, that stood between them, unrelenting.

 

And then they had stopped fighting. James had been happy about it, in the beginning, before coming to understand that it was actually much worse. Fighting had actually been another way to tell each other that they _cared_ – but now they had just ran out of way to tell each other anything at all.

Back when they fought, they would sometimes still try to fuck. As Thomas’ memory faded, his presence more and more difficult to conjure from their brushing skins, it grew more and more painful. But, at least, even then, they had still shared something, even it had only been pain.

When silence replaced the fighting, James had realized he was now living with a stranger, a ghost, and too many fucking regrets, in a house he refused to consider a home.

In those days, he stopped trying to count the number of times he tried to leave her. He repeated to himself that there was no meaning to be found in inflicting upon each other such profound misery, when they already had so much else to deal with. What was the point in trying to overcome their grief by tearing one another to pieces?

But every time he thought of packing his stuff and closing the door behind him, he stopped himself, the prospect of not having her in his life becoming suddenly and overwhelmingly unbearable.

Her presence was the worst part of his life – but it was all he had left.

 

In the end, she had been the one who had left. For a week, there had been no news. Her stuff was still in her room, even though some of it was missing. There was no way to contact her. No way for him to beg her to come back, to promise her he’d try to make things better if only she fucking _came back_. Reality made him realize that he wouldn’t survive her becoming another one of his demons – he couldn’t.

He had raged – raged, and raged, and raged. And then he had heard the front door of the house creaking open, the sound of the rain pouring filtering inside. He was drunk. Instead of going on his knees to beg her never to leave him again, like he had imagined he would do if she came back, he found himself struck motionless under her cold stare. She finally went to her room without a word, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake.

It hadn’t fixed anything, but he had never considered leaving her once afterwards – nor had he thrown anything in her direction ever again.

 

-

 

The first night he brought John home had been a mixing up of unfortunate circumstances. Miranda had sent him a message in the afternoon, telling him she was bringing someone back to the house and she would appreciate it if he could avoid coming back before 11 pm. Because he had a strong inkling of who it was she was fucking, but also knowing he had no legitimate right to tell her anything about it, he acquiesced without reservation.

Spending his evening drinking with Hal wasn’t such a bad deal after all. Only problem was that his judgement had grown gradually clouded, and he really couldn’t help thinking that Silver really wasn’t that far from. On his way, he could, before going back -.

Maybe trying to piss Miranda off had been the real reason behind accepting to have Silver drive him home that night. Or maybe he had been waiting for a legitimate excuse not to break his back doing enjoyable stuff on the uncomfortable surfaces of his office.

He knew that even if John didn’t make noise, Miranda was bound to hear he had brought someone back with him. He didn’t care – she would be gone in the morning long before either one of them woke up. And the sex, though clumsy, had been fairly enjoyable, taking off a frustration he hadn’t realized he carried.

What had been much less enjoyable was waking up with full thinking capacities to realize Silver’s side of the bed was empty and the tell-tale sounds of Miranda preparing breakfast were reaching his bedroom.

He found them sharing breakfast in silence. The scene was unsettling for more reasons than he could count – but Miranda’s pretend composure of gentleness and amicability as she offered him tea under Silver’s clearly impressed stare did more to piss him off than anything else could have. He left without a word, certain she’d come around to the door in a few moments. She did.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He almost spat in her face as she put her keys in her purse, before staring at her shoes cabinet.

“I’m the one who should be asking that question.” She didn’t look at him. “If you have a problem with me bringing people here, you have other ways to say it that putting that poor kid in the middle of us.”

“You weren’t supposed to _see_ him. And I hadn’t planned on bringing him anywhere, I’m sorry.” James justified himself under her accusing stare. His apologies lacked any kind of effectiveness given how angrily he spouted them. “And I’m glad to see you’re thinking that highly of me.”

“Lower your damn voice.” She chastised him. “And go tell that damn kid I’m not your wife before he makes a cardiac arrest.”

James realized with a hint of guilt that he hadn’t stopped for a single second to consider what Silver’s reaction upon seeing Miranda could have been.

“What did you tell him?” He asked.

A flash of hurt seemed to pass on her features, but James had neither the energy nor the time to think it through. She didn’t answer, simply shaking her head, exasperated. As she finished tying her shoes and was making her way to the door, he threw her way:

“And I don’t fucking care if you fuck Peter.” Which was a perfect to demonstrate that he did, in fact, care very much.

But she didn’t turn around, even though she had heard him clear as day.

Afterwards, in the car, Silver’s questions had been almost endearing, and James promised himself he would never bring him back to the house again. And that, maybe, he could also make an effort in being less of a lunatic ass.

 

He hadn’t expected to come back home that night to hear music coming out of Miranda’s study. She had never played in the house – or not that he ever knew of. He stopped in the hallway. She must have heard him opening the door, but she continued playing.

He stayed in the hallway for maybe an hour, listening through the closed door of her study. He had no idea what she was playing, though James was certain that Thomas would have. When it was over, he went to his room.

 

-

 

When Thomas had gotten sick, it was Alfred who had found him what money couldn’t buy; a place in a hospital where everyone who wanted in had too much money. Despite Thomas’ objections that he was perfectly fine with whatever his and Miranda’s money could get him, Miranda and James had both decided that they wanted him to have more than that.

The second they agreed to have Alfred place Thomas where he wanted him to be, the end began. It hadn’t been immediate, but it became harder and harder for James to be allowed to see Thomas. By the last month, when Thomas had mostly been unconscious and unable to protest the doctors’ following blindly Alfred’s request that James not be admitted to see his son, James hadn’t been allowed in his room at all.

He hadn’t been allowed to attend the funeral either.

 

James knew, on a fundamental level, that he would never forgive neither himself nor Miranda for what they had done. For how they had allowed things to go. Back then, they had convinced themselves and each other that it was worth it, to let Alfred have this control, if it meant Thomas was getting the best care and the least amount of pain this life could possibly offer. But as time went by, Thomas’ requests that they let him stay with those he loved instead of giving him care that wasn’t going to save him rang painfully prescient.

 

He was still angry at Miranda, sometimes. Angry at her for not being able to foresee how it would all go down, from the moment they had asked something from Alfred. He shouldn’t have, because he’d had his say on the matter too – but he felt it nonetheless, every time he remembered that he had never gotten to say goodbye, but she had.

 

-

 

Two days after James had brought John to stay the night for the first time, Miranda told him over dinner:

“He looks more alive than I have felt in years.”

It was a heartfelt confession, barely above a whisper. He knew she was talking about Silver – he had himself marvelled at how John could go through more emotions in five minutes than James felt capable of handling in a week.

“I feel guilty.” James admitted in turn.

Miranda smiled. Honesty was hard to conjure between them – but it was a relief to realize it could still be such a rewarding thing to place at the juncture of their feelings.

“About his age?”

“And that he’s my student. I don’t think about it, most of the time. But it’s still there.”

“How’s sex?” She smiled, but the question still seemed serious.

“Like sex can be between two people who barely know each other. Though it’s improving. And it started from a decent place. Do you think he’s too young?”

She shook her head, smiling in disbelief, half-mocking.

“I don’t know what kind of boring prude you were at 25 to think that he’s not in it for the sex. If I may, and from what you’ve told me about everything so far, I highly doubt he’s in it for your charming personality anyway.”

James laughed – a real laugh. He was about to feebly protest that he _wasn’t_ a boring prude, but before he could she said:

“I can’t really say, exactly, what you find in him. But I’ll support what you want, and if what you want is to bring him home, you’re welcome to.”

James arched a surprised eyebrow.

“Did he work his charm on you too?”

“It’s not about him. It’s about us.” She stopped there, but James felt she had more to say. “Alfred called again.” She let a few beats go by, letting the information sink in: “His calls always remind me what I promised. It still means something to me, what I said.” For the first time since they had begun the conversation, she raised her eyes to look at him. “I promised that I’d take care of you. That I’d be here for you. I failed on both accounts. So have you, with regards to me.” She added, seeing him about to protest his own culpability. “We’re still failing every day. But I’m still willing to try. And I don’t think I’ve told you that enough; nor given you enough, if any, proof of it. I don’t know if we have much left, but if there is still something, I don’t want to loose it. Especially not because of stupid bickering over who you – or I – fuck.”

James swallowed hard, before silently taking her hand in his his.

 

-

 

James had only learned of the existence of Miranda and Thomas’ pre-nuptial agreement after Thomas’ death, when it had become his and Miranda’s joint nightmare. She told him Alfred had forced her to sign it – she had been quite young, and her and Thomas had been so certain of themselves, so sure of their outliving that fucker, that she had done so with a laugh, choosing to not even read half its terms after her mother had told her that it was a pretty standard one, and she had never thought about it afterwards.

As a consequence, after Thomas’ death, they both had to leave the house where all three of them had used to live. That part didn’t bother James – he couldn’t stand to be in it anymore. But litigation over the ownership of their house had only been the beginning. Every little thing that had been bought by Thomas and Miranda after their marriage – or which ownership Thomas had derived from his father – suddenly became the source of bitter legal battles.

Miranda claimed – rightfully – that the signing hadn’t been one of Thomas’ desires. The fact that Thomas had actually left a will, written after he had learned of his cancer, aking James and Miranda the sole beneficiaries in the event of his death, was further proof that the prenup should be considered null and void.

Alfred just hired more lawyers.

In an attempt to demonstrate her goodwill – and, more specifically, in an effort to cast Alfred Hamilton out of their lives for the remaining of forever – she had chosen to forfeit the wealth she assumed Alfred cared about. Stock options. Investment in real estate James had only ever heard of in passing. More investments. An off-shore account on an island James wouldn’t have been able to put on a map.

In exchange for all of that, she had only asked that she keep the investments where her money had constituted half or more of the original purchase price, the vacation house on the coast, Thomas’ personal belongings, and the _Nassau_ , the boat she and Thomas had offered James. But playing by Alfred’s rules had been her cardinal mistake.

He didn’t give two shits about her attempt at goodwill, and four years later, they were still at it.

 

Because it all legally only engaged Miranda’s name, James remained at the periphery of all the mess. Even _The Nassau_ had remained in the Hamiltons name and not his for tax purposes, or something. Not like he knew what that meant. Before he had met Thomas and Miranda, he had been in the Coast Guard; it wasn’t really the kind of job that required him to have a wealth manager in his phone book.

 

-

 

James was weary of hospitals and anything related to hospitals – a heavy weight settled in his stomach the second John told him about being at St. John’s.

John didn’t seem to realize how shook he looked, nor how dishevelled he was. His hands were still shaking and he spent most of the ride mindlessly staring through the window, totally oblivious to James’ worried glances.

James ached to try and take his hand in his to quiet him, but didn’t know if it would have been welcome or not. In the end, he abstained. There were too many people in the restaurants’ street for James’ liking.

 

“ _I’ll shut up until you formally instruct me that I can talk again. How does that sound?”_

It sounded fantastic.

Later, James would marvel at John’s ability to have him explain what had happened to Thomas. He knew he owed him that story, in some form of twisted way, in exchange for the unsettling things he had put John through since the beginning of their relationship – but it didn’t make the confession any less meaningful in a hundred other respects.

 

-

 

Because of Miranda’s efforts and reassurances that she was fine with John coming over, James had difficulties not inviting him every other day. Silver was a wonderful company to have in times of turmoil – and soon he wasn’t just an escape for James, but also for Miranda. James often teased her about how much she seemed to enjoy the kid’s company, but she just shrugged, reminding him that Silver, _at least,_ offered her company.

 

-

 

He should have seen it coming. He had repeatedly caught himself referencing his relationship with John in the future tense – sometimes not taking into account the upcoming summer break. It was unintentional – but Miranda picked up on it, asking him if he had talked it through with John. It was the rational, mature thing to do, of course. The thing that would allow everything to go as healthily as possible under the current circumstances, which were mostly all but healthy.

Obviously, he didn’t do it.

It angered him to hear that Miranda had gone ahead and talked to John about it in his stead. But he hadn’t expected John’s relief at James telling him they were not supposed to be projecting themselves anywhere in the future to somehow hurt more.

 

-

 

As the end of the semester neared, becoming unable to see John grew to be a mixed blessing. It allowed James to gradually come to a conclusion regarding what he wanted, and what he could reasonably ask and offer in return from John’s eventual reciprocation. But Alfred had decided to begin a new litigation on the _Nassau_ , on the basis of a paper one of their former friends must have given him, and it touched on the most emotional aspects of James and Miranda’s attachments to their material belongings.

The boat wasn’t just theirs, it was also, on a fundamental level, _them –_ including Thomas. And James would kill Alfred with his bare hands before allowing the fucker to put a single finger on his fucking boat.

Miranda suggested inviting John over, just for once, as a way to just remind each other that there was life, outside of this house – life, and levity, and people who didn’t know who Alfred fucking Hamilton was.

James had somehow felt beforehand that breakfast with both John and Miranda was going to end poorly, but he wanted to give her this sense of normalcy. But Miranda was pushing too hard, making proposals way too bold. James was also baffled that John seemed completely oblivious to her subtle way of flirting – but well, given his forceful reaction last night to James’ proposition (an idea of Miranda, initially), John clearly seemed to have familial demons of his own.

“ _Oh, if it’s the first weekend, I really can’t. It’s the gay pride – only unmissable highlight of my yearly social calendar. It’s too bad you guys won’t -.”_

It hadn’t been necessary for James to react this forcefully. But he had anyway.

 

-

 

It took all of Miranda’s energy to coax him into finally giving John a call to apologize. It really wasn’t John’s fault if he was a basket case.

James wanted to have something in his life _again_ – he wanted to feel something. And maybe, given time, effort, and some more time, he could grow accustomed to John being just that.

He was attached to him, on a very genuine level, But the whole episode had only been another stark reminder of how much John’s experience and his diverged. His subsequent reaction made him consider the possibility that, maybe, there were things neither time, nor efforts, nor even more time, could ever truly fix.

 

-

 

Hornigold started complaining first, in the teachers’ room. And then Lowe. And then Parrish. The only thing the three of them had in common was that they had all left their exams for the undergraduate classes in Lowe’s hands for scanning, a while back – along with James’ own final exam.

Maybe if his own undergraduates hadn’t been the only ones not showing any signs of having had their questions in advance, he wouldn’t have tried to connect the dots. Maybe. He’d never know.

 

-

 

He pondered sending a message to John, or even calling him directly. But neither felt right. It was like doing things only half-heartedly; he knew he either had to tell John directly that he suspected, or knew, what he had done, or just accept that he didn’t truly care. He couldn’t just talk personally to John about it; it wasn’t a personal matter, and he knew he should resist the temptation to make it one.

Instead he told Miranda. She remained silent for a few seconds, her eyes still on Borges’ _Fictions,_ but he could see she had stopped reading.

“I can’t say I blame him.” She finally confessed. It was such a stark contrast to what her initial harsh judgement of John had been that James almost pointed it out to her, but she continued: “Do you want to talk to him about it?”

“It’s just an intuition.”

“It’s probably the right one, though, right?” Miranda insisted.

James shrugged, unwilling to cast blame on John on such shaky grounds.

“Why aren’t you blaming me for putting myself on such a shitty situation? You warned me about fucking a student.” He said as he sunk further into his chair, avoiding her stare.

“For a start, you’re blaming yourself enough. Second, I welcomed him in this home maybe more than you did. I share whatever blame you are choosing to cast on yourself.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He sighed, still grateful she was trying to make him feel less shitty.

“Do you want to talk to him about it?” She asked for the second time.

The answer was no. He didn’t want to talk to John about it. He was fine burying his head in the sand for as long as necessary, or even as long as possible. But some part of him recoiled at the idea of casting aside his ethic standards; even for John.

 

-

 

He hadn’t known exactly what reaction he had expected from John, but it sure as hell hadn’t been the look of utter dejection James found plastered on his face the second he stepped into his office.

Truth be told, James hadn’t planned on putting an end to things that way – even if John had confessed to selling the exams. They would have talked about it, and James would have avoided doing what he had already done once, a lifetime ago.

If John hadn’t looked like a child in that moment.

He’d had no way of knowing in advance that his guilt only needed so little to turn into shame – and then, abruptly, into fear. It was unfair, the way his feelings recoiled at his desires – the way he found himself trapped between two parts of his own self.

He knew John wouldn’t try to get him expelled – but fear was the one who spoke for him words which propensity to hurt he only comprehended once it was too late:

“I hope this will be enough to convince you of the necessary discretion I would highly appreciate coming from you going forward.”

 

-

 

After the end of Miranda’s semester, and after James had sent all of his grades to the administration, they conjointly agreed that they could allow themselves a reprieve from the notary’s calls and the lawyers’ emails. It wasn’t like all that mess wouldn’t still be there when they would come back from Paris.

Despite this agreement, James suspected that Miranda was still receiving calls from Alfred that she wasn’t telling him about. But he didn’t have it in him to insist and ask her about it.

 

It was 2 am, and their flight was at 9 am, and he still hadn’t finished packing his suitcase. The silence coming from the rest of the house suggested that Miranda had already gone to sleep, but he couldn’t be sure. She would have come to tell him goodnight, if she had – but those last few weeks had been straining for her, and they had often gone to bed without telling each other anything.

That was why it startled him when he heard a knock on his door. She didn’t come inside until he told her to, and a quick look around the room told her enough about the state of his preparations.

“Do you want help?” She asked, coming to sit at his side, finding a little bit of room among the piles of clothing he had scattered on the bed in an effort at trying to sort out which he needed and which he didn’t. He hadn’t made much from progress from when he had started, three hours ago.

“You should go to sleep. I’ll manage.” He gently brushed her thigh. It was that time of the year – when it was warm enough that she started sleeping only in his oversized t-shirts again, those which dated back to his Coast Guard days.

“I’ll have plenty of time to sleep in the plane. And it’ll be a shame if we miss our flight because you’re still not capable of packing a suitcase on your own.”

She had gripped his hand in hers as she talked, and was stroking its back with her thumb, quietly.

“We’ll feel better in Paris.” She said, bending over to rest her head on his shoulder. Absent-mindedly, he pecked a kiss on her head. She could tell he wasn’t really there. “We’ll be together.” She added. It was barely more than a sigh, but he held her tightly against him for a few seconds afterwards.

“Maybe I could use the help.” He finally confessed.

She was done with the suitcase in twenty minutes, and he was still sitting where she had found him, having only had to gesture to her which shirts he wanted to take. Afterwards, she folded back the clothes which were still rumpled on the bed he wasn’t going to take. When it was all done, she came back to sit next to him.

“I can stay here. If you don’t mind. Or you can come to my room.”

His eyes were closing on their own under the exhaustion.

“You were right. I shouldn’t have started this mess with him. He didn’t deserve it.” He was barely awake, she could tell.

Without answering, she got up to turn off the lights, and checked the alarm on his phone. He was already lying down when she came back to rest against his back, circling his chest with her arm. He caught her hand, entwining their fingers before bringing them to his lips. She smelled unfamiliar – probably a new shower gel.

He fell asleep almost immediately.

 

**-**

 

“I forgot to take my books.” He realized during their transfer. They were falling asleep on one another, uncomfortably sprawled on the incredibly uncomfortable chairs of the boarding room.

“It’s okay, I took those I assumed you’d want.” She answered, her voice even sleepier than his.

“What would I do without you?”

They were starting to call the rows at the end of the plane for boarding, and he checked to see if it concerned them. Not yet.

“You’d still be packing your fucking suitcase.” She finally answered as they stood up to start queuing.

 

-

 

They usually avoided going to Paris during the summer – it was unnecessarily hot, Parisians had ran away if they could, bad-mannered tourists filled the subway, the museums, and the cafés, and the National Library – where James spent most of his time – closed earlier than he would have liked it to. All in all, it wasn’t the best time to get there, but when they had tried to go during Winter Break, they had received a convocation to the tribunal from Alfred’s lawyers, and Miranda hadn’t been able to move it.

And he wasn’t going to complain too much – it still felt incredibly good to be elsewhere than Underhill and their house.

 

During his __Structuralism and post-structuralist French philosophy_ _ class for undergraduates, James had realized again how much he loved Michel Foucault’s books. He hadn’t been able to shake away his desire to re-read all of it as soon as he would have enough time – and so he just spent his time reading Foucault, when he wasn’t preparing his classes for the next semester in the National Library’s study room.

Miranda silently indulged him (she was the one who had remembered to take his English translations with them), and she had books of her own to occupy her.

 

A week went by. They lived near the Père Lachaise cemetery, in a bed & breakfast that allowed them the modicum of privacy they required. But it was hot, and staying indoors was suffocating, and so they just spent their days wandering in café’s terraces when James wasn’t working. They didn’t talk much.

By the end of the first week, James took John’s final exam paper out of his luggage. He had considered throwing it away after having sent the grade to the administration, but now contemplated actually reading it. John had indeed told him that he had worked, and read the source material, but James was still convinced it had been an exaggeration on John’s part.

 

But John hadn’t lied. It was actually good – just as good as John had told him it would be. Maybe not an A+, certainly – but that was only because James was the kind of teacher who never gave a perfect grade.

 

Reading John’s exam made James reflect on the semester, again.

He didn’t fault John, nor blamed him. He only faulted himself – he had been the adult, the one holding the upper hand, and he had repeatedly chosen to disregard that fact in favour of indulging himself.

But James had learned long ago that there is no inherent meaning to be found in the way people entered and then left his life, staying only for as long as circumstances tolerated it. While in Paris, he grew accustomed to seeing John as just another utterance of that same truth.

 

Whenever he and Miranda talked, he felt her nudging him towards talking about it. He refused to take the bait.

 

-

 

They went back to Underhill the subject still unaddressed, until Miranda stumbled on John’s exam paper. He shrugged, telling her it was actually good, but didn’t elaborate.

She started reading it as he was chopping the vegetables for their dinner.

“I thought your class was about political philosophy?” She asked him, midway through it.

“It is.”

“Why is he quoting Corneille then?”

James laughed. A wave of fondness caught him off-guard when he realized what she was talking about.

“He picked on me quoting it for no good reason in class. I think he knows I like it way too much.”

“ _This dark brightness that falls from the stars, Showed thirty ships now crossing the bar…_ That has literally nothing to do here. _”_ She laughed, reading his quote. _“_ If he wanted to court you effectively, he should have done it in the original French.”

“English is good enough for me. You and Thomas always had a tendency to overkill it with Latin and Greek.”

It was amazing what years could do – how they had made his name tolerable, before managing to turn it into a source of comfort in and of itself.

“You’ve forgiven him, haven’t you? For selling the subjects?” She nudged him.

“I was never mad to begin with.” The admission was effortless. “It was a good pretext. Though I now regret using it as such, after I’ve seen the way he reacted. He seemed really torn over what he’s done.” James was still not over the way John’s voice had broken slightly, the only time he had answered his questions.

“For what it’s worth, it was the best thing to do. To stop things here. If he hadn’t been your student… maybe. But as it is...”

James nodded, eager to bring the conversation to a close.

“Jack is inviting us Saturday to his place. Do you want to come? There’ll be Teach, probably Charles too. And maybe some of Jack’s friends from wherever that guy goes to pick friends.”

She didn’t come often with him to those gatherings, but they had been lacking social contact for long enough that he assumed she would be interested.

“That’ll be fun.”

 

-

 

Jack’s place had a nice garden behind the house, with crawling aromatic plants and a quiet corner with a metal table and a barbecue pit. Anne was taking care of the food with Charles while Jack was making conversation with his guests. Teach and Miranda hadn’t seen each other for a while and they easily fell into catching up, leaving James with people he didn’t really know.

It felt pretty good going out of the mutual shelf of self-sufficiency they had both dug themselves into, even though it had been agreeable while it had lasted.

Charles soon joined James, refilling their glasses of wine. They chatted for a while about Paris, and Charles’ upcoming plan to spend a month hiking whichever trail he still hadn’t completed, somewhere West. Jack freed himself to join the two of them. They clung their glasses in quiet companionship.

“Oh. I don’t know if one of you has heard about it. Doubt you’d have any reason to, but...” Jack began, gesturing with his hand.

James was half listening, his attention on Miranda who was still animatedly chatting with Teach on the other side of the lawn. Jack continued:

“That student of yours, Silver something. Arrested over marijuana possession. In a stolen car, I think. The dude doesn’t half-ass his blow-ups, I’ll give him that.”

James’ didn’t manage to register all the information at once. Charles immediately expressed the mess James was choking on:

“Silver? _Fuck_. What happened?”

Jack sipped another mouthful of wine, before sighing heavily, as if the matter had somehow weighed on him personally.

“Maybe you remember her, Max? Brunette. She’s one of Anne’s friend, that’s how I know about the story. He called her. Apparently he was with a friend. The friend got in trouble for the car, but Silver only for the drug. Turned out he had very little, so Max had enough to bail him out.”

James gulped his entire glass in one go. He didn’t miss Jack staring at him as he did. Charles looked shook.

“We can’t do shit for them when it matters, can we?” He looked straight at James as he was asking the purely rhetorical question. James averted his eyes back to his empty glass.

“Do you know anything more on the subject?” His voice was raspier than he would have wanted it to be.

“Since Max went to pick him up, we – _Anne_ has gotten no news, from either. God fucking knows what’s going on.”

James planted his hand firmly in his pocket, realizing he was fidgeting, but could not yet find a reason to excuse himself and go see Miranda. Maybe he was also supposed to be saying something?

But Anne called for Jack, and Charles went with him to the barbecue pit. James immediately crossed the lawn in a few quick strides, coming to stand at Miranda’s side, a hand on her hip. Teach was sensitive to James’ body language, and excused himself to go grab another beer.

“Is everything okay?” Miranda asked, brushing his arm quietly.

“John got himself in prison, or something.”

He saw her grow suddenly pale, and wondered if he had looked the same when Jack had told him, and if that was what Charles had picked on.

“What…?”

“He’s out. Bail. I suppose. We suppose.”

He must have never sounded so ineffectively articulate in his whole life.

“Did you try calling him?”

James blinked stupidly for a few seconds.

“No, Jack just -.”

“Call. _Now_.” Her voice was low but commanding, and somehow just as panicked as his.

They took a few steps in the direction of a rather empty corner of the lawn, before James pressed dial on John’s number. He was ready to agonize over the awful sound of ringing, but it went straight to voicemail. He tried again, two times, without running into any more luck.

“Listen, maybe it’s better.” He finally said, pocketing the phone and avoiding her stare. He didn’t like seeing his worry reflected there. “It’s not supposed to be my business anymore, I made that relatively clear to -.” Miranda’s glaring cut him short from finishing that sentence.

He rubbed his forehead, before nervously quieting his hair behind his ear.

“Do you have any more ways to contact him?” Miranda asked after a few seconds.

He shook his head. She sighed heavily, before taking his hand in hers.

“You sure he’s out?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Okay. Okay. Good. Then there is no urgency in worrying. We’ll have time to figure out how to contact him.”

“We don’t have to do -.”

“We fucking do, James. We fucking do.”

 

-

 

He tried calling at least ten more times, that night. He was always sent straight to voicemail.

He didn’t sleep well, agonizing over his uselessness. He wasn’t one to ponder too long about what he could have done to prevent things, and somehow didn’t delude himself in thinking he could have averted every bad thing that had ever happened to John. But what he could agonize over was his current inability to fix a situation he desperately thought needed fixing.

 

-

 

Miranda barged in his room somewhere around 6 in the morning.

“Can you ask the administration at Uni for his administrative papers? Stuff where you could find his guardian’s phone number? Maybe he’s put it somewhere, even though he’s not living with him anymore.”

James blinked in silence, first spending a few seconds emerging from sleep, and then a couple more seconds thinking over her proposition.

“Maybe. Why? I doubt the man can contact him if we can’t.”

“I know, I know. But he’s supposed to go see his guardian, roughly around next week from what he’s told me. Maybe we can ask? If it’s still planned? That way we have a way to contact him, even if it’s a week from now.”

“Miranda, this is useless.” He cut her short, seeing she was about to object. “We’re not part of his life anymore. I’ve removed myself from it – it’s just not right to barge in it this way.”

“We have been pat of his life, when it mattered. James – this is being decent. And I don’t want to take the risk that this is because of you – because of us – and we’re not at least trying to talk to him.”

“It’s _not_ because -.”

“I know, I know, he had problems before he met us. But maybe he was more attached to you than we figured. And maybe this is partly on us too. I’m saying _maybe_ , alright? Maybe he’d have hijacked a car without us ever being part of his life. But as it is, we are. And we’ve been prominent figures of it for that last six months. You don’t undo that with a one-sided conversation.”

James sighed. Those weren’t words made to reassure him.

“I’ll see with Augustus.”

 

-

 

“Ok. Augustus isn’t supposed to do that, but I have the phone number of a _Christopher Randall._ ” James informed Miranda after having hang up with Featherstone.

“Yes, exactly. I remember, that’s the name John used, Randall. Said he’d go see him for a week in August.”

They were both sitting at the kitchen table. James couldn’t really tell if he was offended or only mad at himself because Miranda knew more about John than he did.

Faced with the phone in between them, they suddenly couldn’t really decide what to do with it.

“Do you know what he’s like?” Miranda asked.

“Christopher Randall? How the fuck would I know?” A few moments of silence hung in the air, before he added: “He put his house as collateral for John’s student loan. Can’t be a bad person then, can he?”

She shrugged.

“Ok. Put it on loudspeaker. We’ll see how it goes.” She said.

“That’s not a plan.”

She simply glared at him silently.

Three rings went by, before a croaked voice answered:

“Who the fuck is this?”

James would probably have laughed if the subject at hand hadn’t eaten him away from the inside for the last twenty four hours.

“Mr. Randall? We would like to talk to Mr. Silver.” James said.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want with my kid?”

James was taken aback by the forcefulness of the reaction, and remained mouth agape for a second too long for Miranda’s taste. She slid the phone to her side of the table, leaning into it with a smile:

“Hello, Sir. We’re from Underhill University’s administration. We had a few problems computing Mr. Silver’s fees for his dormitory room and we’ve been unable to reach him on his personal number.” Her voice was slick and professional and James almost rolled his eyes to the skies.

“Yeah, that fucker’s broken his phone.”

Miranda’s eyes went wide again at the nonchalant use of the expletive, but she didn’t stop on it for too long.

“Do you know how we could contact him?” She insisted.

“Nah. But if it’s not too urgent, call back on this number in a week’s time. He’ll be there.”

“Okay, wonderful. Thank you very much for your help, Sir, we’ll do that.”

But James wasn’t done:

“Do you know where he is, if he’s okay?” His voice was as unprofessional as Miranda’s had been professional.

He thought he heard Randall conspicuously sneer on the other side of the line.

“How the fuck would that be your damn business?”

James didn’t have the time to consider enlightening him on the matter before Randall hung up, the conversation obviously over for him since Miranda’s last words.

She looked displeased with James, but only said:

“He’s fine. Apparently.”

James wasn’t convinced. But he would have no choice but to wait another week before getting a confirmation from John himself that things were okay. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the twists aren't disappointing. There are only between three to four chapters left now.


	9. Interlude II: Max LeFevre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge apologies for the delay in uploading - both my beta and I have been caught up with IRL time-consuming stuff which prevented me from sticking to my pubishing schedule.  
> Good news though! I finished writing the story during this mini hiatus; there are four chapters left to go, including this one, (roughly 20k). I'll finish publishing regularly in the two coming weeks probably :)  
> Once again, my apologies.

 

 

" _Regardless of what barriers confront you, it is in your power to free yourselves; you have only to want to._ " - Olympes de Gouges.

* * *

 

If it hadn’t been for meeting Silver and realizing that parents could come in unimaginable shapes, Max would have spent her life thinking she couldn’t have done much worse than a depressed, burned out mother and a father with a parallel life who had refused to acknowledge Max’s existence until she got into a good university.

She didn’t know if she really blamed her mother for allowing him back into their lives twenty three years too late. It wasn’t like Max herself hadn’t spent her childhood hoping that one day she’d be enough to gain his acknowledgement – and how could she not feel proud at having suddenly earned his praise?

His other family knew about Max and her mother apparently, but his wife had chosen to resign herself to the situation, and Max suspected that her half-sister – who she’d never met – was also fine with things.

Dealing with her father’s newfound presence in her life was a balancing act. He was an economic analyst and sometimes she wondered if she hadn’t chosen her major – unconsciously – to please him. He had worked, once or twice, with Woodes Rogers, Eleanor’s boss slash part-time lover, which was an element of trivia she had never managed to get over. All in all, he was from another world altogether – one of comfort, quiet domesticity, and sufficient wealth that she had never gotten to experience and was only now beginning to understand. She resented him for never paying attention to her, or her mother, sending money only when they were desperate enough to ask for it.

 

-

 

Max was stuck at home with her mother for the better part of June, and didn’t really have much else to do except mull over her best friend’s propensity for being an asshole, and lend a friendly ear to Charlotte and Idelle as they complained about men.

The house where she had grown up had become too small for her. Her childhood bedroom felt claustrophobic, with its low ceiling, tiny blue desk, and empty shelves. Max had painted the desk herself, when she was fifteen, because one of her friends had a pretty blue desk her parents had offered her.

Since being admitted at Underhill U, she had worked every summer – except for this one, for she didn’t have to. And so she was simply at home. She had hoped it would be relaxing – at least until July came and she could join Jack and Anne for the month – but it wasn’t.

Her mother worked night shifts as a nurse, and consequently Max spent her mornings on her own while her mother slept. She prepared meals, cleaned the house, and waited for her to wake up in the middle of the afternoon so they could try and have a straining conversation every once in a while.

 

On top of being bored out of her mind, she also had to contend with her father randomly appearing out of nowhere to have dinner with them, now that she had earned herself a spot in his world. Sometimes he left when her mother went to work, around 10 pm, and sometimes he overstayed, trying to talk with Max. It never led to anything even close to bonding.

 

-

 

“We received Max’s transcript for the last semester.” Her mother welcomed him for dinner, Friday night, near the end of June.

Max was in the kitchen, watching over the pasta she had put in the oven. She eyed the melted cheese with pride.

“It’s really good.” She heard her father answer, his voice still as foreign to her as it had been the first day she’d heard it, two years ago. “I read a book by Edward Teach. He’s a specialist of Kazakhstan’s economy, isn’t he? Woodes doesn’t like him, but his cross-national analyses are quite robust, whatever one may argue.” He added, as he entered the kitchen to come sit at the table.

Max laid the pasta in the middle, careful to keep the hot plate away from the glasses.

“Yeah. Post-Soviet economies, in general, actually. Save for Russia. Russia’s not really his thing.”

“A good reference to have in your phone book. Did you keep a recommendation letter from him?”

Max knew there was nothing in what he was saying that warranted her hostility at the moment, all of it was actually quite benevolent, but she was still irritated.

“I’ll probably take another of his class next semester, before graduation. I’ll ask him for one then.”

She had finished serving the two of them, and finally sat.

“I told your mother we should all go have dinner, in a restaurant, before you leave to see your friends in July.”

Max looked at her mother. All her pretty looks, like John called them, came from her. Despite the permanent exhaustion, and the toll it had taken raising a daughter on her own, the woman still caught everyone’s eye in the street. However, except for the lighter shade of her skin, Max didn’t get much from her father in the way of looks.

“I’ll probably not be there in August too, by the way.” She thought good to remind the two of them.

They ate in silence for a while, before her father asked:

“What exactly will you be doing then?”

“July’s with my girlfriend. August, still don’t know.”

“Oh, you’re back with Eleanor Guthrie?”

Before Max could snap back, angry at her father’s very telling insistence on the last name, her mother said:

“Why would she be back with Eleanor? She’s with Anne now.” And before Max could add anything, her mother ironically added: “Anne Bonny.”

Max smiled down her plate.

 

-

 

It didn’t come naturally to Max to make do with a feeling such as _resignation_. Accepting that certain things were out of her control – especially when it came to things she cared about – somehow ran contrary to what she was naturally inclined to feel. So she called John repeatedly, several times a day, unable to let go.

If she couldn’t make him accept the money, she could at least yell at him until she grew tired of wasting her energy on the matter.

On June, 30th, her annoyance turned into worry. She knew he had been dodging her calls and Billy’s, probably shutting his phone off, but every summer since they were friends, he had made an effort to reassure her after a while. And that “while” had expired a long time ago according to her standards.

She decided to call the hotel where he worked, happy to have thought to ask that of him before he disappeared, hell bent on making anyone who picked up get her John at the end of the line by the end of the conversation.

“Yeah. Hi. I’d like to talk to one of the employees, do you think you could help?”

She tried to soothe her voice, making it as enticing as possible. The girl on the other end of the line sounded young – she probably wasn’t going to bitch about Max’s request.

“Yeah. Sure, who?”

“John Silver? He must be cooking -.”

“Oh God. Silver got fired a week ago or something. Hilarious guy though. He and Muldoon – you must know Muldoon too, right? - caught smoking pot _inside the damn place_. Dumb fucks right?”

Max raised her eyes to the skies, stifling a groan. She’d have probably strangled John had he been in front of her at that moment.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” She mumbled after a second. “Thank you for your help though – do you know where they are now?”

“No idea, sorry.” The girl answered.

“Ok, would you happen to have Muldoon’s phone number then?”

“I can ask someone who has, but not right now. Could you call back tonight, between 5 and 6?”

“Yeah, sure. Thank you so much. Good luck for your shift.”

 

Max got the number that night, but didn’t call right away. She knew if she did, she’d probably be over-the-top angry and alienating John right away maybe wasn’t the best course of action – all she wanted to tell him was that his part of the money was still his if he wanted it. It would impact her plans in July, and mostly August, but if he had been fired, he probably needed it much more than she did.

 

-

 

She lived in a small town, three hours away from Underhill by car, a little bit more than four by bus. Anne and Jack picked her up from the bus terminal, in Jack’s old Audi.

The both of them still didn’t know how she had managed, seemingly overnight, to not need a job anymore for the summer, when she had repeatedly told them during the semester that she would only be able to spend a couple of days with them, at best. Jack had insisted, trying to find cracks in her lies, for longer than Anne, before giving up altogether.

 

She had learned to know Jack’s house pretty well by now – and that was why it almost made her choke up to realize they had rearranged the rooms in order for Anne and her to have their own, on the other side of the hallway from Jack’s.

Max remained transfixed in the doorway. The right wall was a gigantic window with a view on the back garden and its lush lawn.

“We figured it would be best for everyone’s feelings to make a little bit of arrangements, if you’re going to stay here for a month.”

Jack’s sounded both funny and strained. It was obvious he was making efforts – which was what he had been doing for the better part of the last six months, all for Anne and Anne’s welfare. Max was sensitive to it and thanked him again, but Anne was already lusciously sprawled on the bed, looking at her with her version of a smile. Jack excused himself, finally leaving the two of them alone.

 

-

 

Jack had met Anne when he had still been teaching in high school. She had been one of his students, and though Anne never gave Max all the details, Max didn’t struggle too much to patch the pieces together to form a somehow coherent picture. Jack had figured quite early that Anne was subject to some form of abuse at home and had taken her out of it, seemingly not in the most legal or advisable way.

She hadn’t left his side ever since. When he had found himself a job at Underhill, she had, at first, gotten a secretary post in the administration, before he had finally managed to convince her to attend classes, try to graduate in something. That was when she’d met Max.

Max understood that she had come in between them with anything but finesse, blowing away a very well established relationship – but, despite Jack’s very visible turmoil at it all, she had never managed to feel any inkling of regret at having swept Anne off of her feet.

 

-

 

She tried calling the number she had been given after dinner, the second day. Anne and Jack – and the three of them spending a very luxurious amount of time in bed – had prevented her from thinking too hard about it earlier than that.

She went to the garden, leaving Jack and Anne to wash the dishes after dinner, and called. The phone rang four times, before a shaky voice picked up:

“Listen, I told you man, I’m gonna need another week before I get the money and -.”

“Hey, is this Muldoon?” She interrupted him. “Is Silver with you?”

A few beats of silence went by and she thought best to add: “Tell him it’s Max.”

She heard some ruffling and a few seconds later she finally heard John’s voice:

“Max?” He sounded hesitant, probably expecting to get scolded very soon and very unkindly, or maybe he was just surprised at her calling this number.

“Where the fucking fuck have you been, you shithead?” So much for keeping her cool.

“I’m just at the hotel -.”

“I know you got fired, moron. Last week. Who do you think gave me this number?” She spat.

“Hum… oh.”

Max took a deep breath, not wanting to let the conversation stall. She cast a glance towards the house, where Jack and Anne were two shadows on the background of the illuminated kitchen. It wasn’t often that watching something from the outside could feel this good. John was silent on the other end of the line. It softened her, somehow, that he wasn’t trying to defend himself.

She had one thing to say, and she’d say it – the rest would be up to him.

“Listen, I didn’t call for that. Just to tell you I didn’t spend your share yet. You can have it if you want. I don’t care.”

“No, no. I said keep it.” His voice was forceful, and it took her by surprise. Given that he’d gotten fired, and probably didn’t have much to rely on except whatever he had managed to save from his pay check at _The Walrus_ , she hadn’t expected his declining her offer.

“John, I don’t know where you are, or what you’re doing, and honestly, I don’t think I want to know. But I know I don’t want you to be there for long. Take a bus, from wherever you are. Come back to Underhill. I’ll give you the damn money. You can go back to Randall then, or just go and crash at Billy’s, his mother would be delighted to see you. Hell, you can even crash at my mother’s place if you want, I’m not there for now. But, for the love of God, do _something_ that doesn’t involve wallowing in self-pity or your broken feelings.”

“I’m not -.” He began to protest.

“Flint’s just an asshole.” She cut him short. “You’ve always said that. Day one, remember? He doesn’t _deserve_ your sudden outburst of moral backbone, nor you feeling any guilt over what we’ve done.”

“He’s not, Max. And stop talking about him – _it_ , or I’ll hang up. I owe you no explanation.”

“Fine. But if all he managed to do was get you in the situation you’re in right now, he doesn’t deserve half the energy you’re putting into getting over him.” She added despite his threat.

“I’m hanging up.”

And he did.

 

-

 

It felt all the more ironic when she received the call, two weeks later. She was preparing a late breakfast with Jack when her phone started vibrating on the kitchen’s marble counter. Jack gave a look to the screen, being closer to it than she was:

“Unknown number.” He informed her.

Max almost left it to ring on its own. She had her hands full and felt pretty good where she was, but Jack asked:

“You’re not gonna pick it up? Maybe it’s John.”

She had given Anne and Jack only the most basic information regarding John, and hadn’t realized she had let so much of her worry show, but Jack had picked on the details – like he always did. She sighed, uncertain whether she actually wanted it to be John calling, or if she wanted it to be anything but him.

She very quickly washed her hands before finally grabbing her phone from Jack’s extended hand:

“Ms. Max LeFevre?” She tensed at the old man’s voice.

“Yeah?”

“This is Deputy Hands, from New Providence County Jail. Do you accept a call from Mr. John Silver?”

Max blinked stupidly for a few seconds before managing to regain her senses.

“Yes, of course. Yes.”

John was put on the line fairly quickly. She heard him cough nervously before he nervously said:

“Max?”

The insults he had probably expected from her had died on her tongue.

“Are you okay?” She asked instead.

“Fairly. Yeah. Listen, about that share you told me about -.”

“How much’s bail?”

He gave her the amount. It was a little bit more than his share, but she didn’t even notice.

“Ok. What do I do?”

“I’m sorry, but I think you have to come. Like, you have to sign a registry or something. You can’t just do it from -.”

“Yeah, sure. Sure. New Providence County Jail? I’ll try to be here asap.”

When she turned around, she found Jack staring at her with an open mouth. His eyebrows were raised in a silent question she wasn’t sure she could properly answer.

“I have to go. You heard.” She placed the phone back on the counter, hand shaking, before taking it back and realizing that she was still in her pyjamas and had nowhere to put it. She clutched it firmly instead.

“I can drive you there. It’s three hours. Let’s go tell Anne.”

She blinked stupidly, his fidgeting hand catching her eye.

“It’s okay Jack. I’ll be back by tomorrow, or even the end of the day if I can manage.”

“Max, really. I can do it. It’s no trouble.”

“I know.” She was on her way to exit the kitchen, and stopped to repeat, “I know”, before running up the stairs to her room.

 

She told Anne, who sneered.

“He’s a moron.”

Max was getting dressed, trying to fix her hair and resisting the temptation to just climb back in bed and pretend John’s mess was none of her business.

“I know, Anne. But you know I can’t leave him there.”

“No, you can’t leave him in jail, I wouldn’t love you if you did. But I don’t have to be happy about losing precious time with you because of him.”

Max went to sit on the edge of the bed to bend and kiss Anne. Her intended closed-mouth kiss turned into something else as Anne circled her arms around Max’s shoulders and kept her firmly in place as she slid her tongue past her lips.

“I really have to go.” Max finally managed to say, less than eager to follow her own instructions. “He’s in a cell.”

“Let Jack at least take you to the Bus Terminal. And call when you come back, he’ll pick you up there.”

“Poor Jack. I don’t think he knew welcoming me between you two would also mean signing up as my valet.”

“He didn’t welcome you, you barged into his life and asked him to deal with it.” Anne corrected her, before she added: “And he signed up to take care of me, and right now that means taking care of _you_.”

Max kissed her again before standing up to leave the room, throwing one last kiss from the doorway.

“And I love you too.”

 

-

 

Deputy Israel Hands would have had her switching sidewalks if she’d met him in the street at night. His stare was unkind and assessing as she stood in front of his counter, signing all the papers he kept putting in front of her. The AC had broken down during the bus ride to New Providence (pop. 5024) and she was soaked and pissed. She wondered how he got away with his gruff beard and long hair during service hours. The answer laid maybe in the fact that there seemed to be no one else in the entire building except for him.

“Sign here.” He slammed another paper in front of her.

Resisting for the tenth time the temptation to just do as he said, she read all of it, finding nothing that felt too out of the ordinary and finally putting her signature in the designated square, expecting an eleventh one. Instead, Israel Hands stood up from his chair and disappeared into a remote room. She tapped expectantly on the counter, suddenly nervous.

It wasn’t like her and John had exchanged selfies of their holidays for the last month, and the last image she’d kept from him was the usual one; clean-shaved, with curls falling on his ears, maybe reaching beneath by the end of the semester, all in all looking decent enough for school. And so she wasn’t prepared for the mess of beard, and hair longer than she’d ever seen him with, that appeared behind Hands. She blinked twice, but despite the blue bags beneath his eyes, dishevelled look, and his general air of not having taken a shower for the last two weeks, it was, indeed, John.

Hands tapped him on the shoulder, in an amicable way.

“Take care, kid. And avoid bad acquaintances, if you want my two cents of advice.”

John chuckled, not nervously at all, before extending his hand for a friendly handshake.

 

-

 

When they exited the building, night was falling. It was still warm, but a cool wind was blowing. They still hadn’t exchanged a word. After standing for long minutes in silence on the sidewalk, Max finally asked:

“Want to go eat something?”

“I don’t have money.” He answered.

She refrained from hitting him on the head, figuring his last 24 hours were probably a good enough excuse for how insufferable he was being.

“I know. It’s okay.” She started walking in the direction of what appeared to be a fast food, further down the street, certain he was going to follow her.

He didn’t.

“John? Let’s go eat something, come on.”

“How much do I owe you? For the transport you took to come here, too.”

She sighed, conjuring patience and understanding from whoever was listening to her prayers.

“John. For fuck’s sake, can you stop being insufferable for the sake of being insufferable? We’ll talk about money after we’ve eaten something. And maybe after you’ve taken a shower and gotten rid of all that fur on your face.”

For a second there, she thought she had been too virulent and he was going to walk away in the opposite direction. If he’d done it, she wouldn’t have looked back twice and would have definitely forfeited the matter of his wellbeing. But after a few seconds, his shoulders sagged in exhaustion.

“’kay.”

 

-

 

Anne called her while they were still eating.

“So, everything okay?”

John had caught the name appearing on the screen and told Max:

“Tell her hi.” Which, being the friendliest tone he’d used with Max in a month, she considered a good thing.

“Yeah, he’s out. I’ve got him. He says hi.”

“How’s he?” It was Jack asking, his voice sounding far away.

“Half-decent.” She answered while sending a knowing look John’s way.

He laughed, a glimmer of something resembling real amusement in his eyes.

“What are your plans now? Did you tell him he can sleep here if he wants?” Jack asked.

This time, his voice was closer, and even John picked on the fact that it was a man talking, for he raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

“I didn’t, yet. I’ll talk to him and see.”

“Sure. Give us a call when you know.”

John was laying back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head, when she hung up. She cast the quickest of glance to his inner arms, hoping he wouldn’t catch her doing it, but he did.

“Nope, I didn’t fuck up that bad.” He informed her.

“Could have fooled me. So, what’s your plan now? More trouble?”

“Nah. Got quite an inspiring pep talk from Deputy Hands. Trouble enough for one year, I’m done for the moment.”

“That guy, inspiring?” She sneered. “Anyway, where’s Muldoon?” Max suddenly remembered to ask. “Bail is off the charts for carjacking right?”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t with Muldoon for that. Another guy you don’t know. I lost Muldoon somewhere like… ten days ago? I’m not sure.”

Max figured it was best for herself she abstained from asking further questions, if only because she was having trouble enough keeping up with everything as it was.

“And your plan?”

“I don’t have one. I think life won – I’ll have to go back to Randall’s place for the rest of the summer. Work at DeGroot’s garage.”

“Billy and the gang will be renting the house in like three days, you’re not going?”

“Not enough money to pay my share of the rental, given I got fired pretty quickly and all.”

Max braced herself. Now came the part she was weary of his reaction to, but which couldn’t be avoided.

“You still have your share actually. Of the money. I didn’t… okay, hear me out.” She saw him about to interrupt and raised a finger to stop him. “I got into a little bit of… tangling up in my lies, with Jack. He doesn’t know where I suddenly got all my money, why I went from telling him and Anne I couldn’t see them all summer to just… spending half of it with them. He was there when the red-haired cop called and he heard almost all of it and like… when he dropped me at the bus terminal? He gave me money, for your bail. He didn’t understand how I could be paying so much for you, or just… I think he thought I was paying with my own money, which as far as he knows isn’t enough, or would have meant I’d have to leave them afterwards, and he was doing _me_ a favour, so I wouldn’t be broke, or something.”

“Fuck. Jack Rackham paid my bail?” John sighed. “Fuck.”

“Technically, he paid me so I wouldn’t have to pay it for you.”

“Why didn’t you tell him I’d pay you back?”

“I tried, he just didn’t listen.” She defended herself.

“But like, you’re gonna give it back to him?”

“I don’t think he’s gonna let me.”

“This is making me more uncomfortable than spending my night in jail.”

Max shrugged. She was the one who hadn’t been able to tell Jack no.

“I’ll think about that later.” John finally said. “For now I don’t even know where I’m spending the night.”

“Yeah. About that too...”

 

-

 

Max had thought it would take a lot of coaxing to get John to just come and sleep at Jack’s house, at least for the night, but it actually didn’t. She had fallen asleep on the bus ride, but she realized how exhausted John was when he simply collapsed in the backseat of Jack’s car almost without saying a word.

“Are you sure he’s okay?” Jack muttered.

She shrugged, turning around to look at John.

“Thank you. Again. Really. For everything.”

“Please don’t. It’s called being decent.”

“Well, thank you for being decent.”

She couldn’t very much thank him for everything else he had done so she could be with Anne – which would have only been rubbing more salt into his fresh wounds – but she could thank him profusely for what he was doing for John.

“You don’t look _that_ worried.” He added, as they were nearing the house. It was close to 1 am, and the streets were empty in the suburban area where he lived.

“It’s not… the first time. Though last time, it was his guardian who took care of it.” She explained. “But… we’re kinda used to it overall. It’s all a factor of his environment, you know? Because he’s so adaptable, most of what it takes to have him be okay is put him in a place – and with people – that can get the best of him. When we’re at Uni, it’s okay. Between Billy, me, the job at _The Walrus…_ he fucks up, like we all do, but things go fine.” She almost added Flint, recently, but she knew better than to let her mouth get ahead of her thoughts. “When we lose him every summer… shit happens. It’s predictable.”

She had kept her voice as low as possible to give those explanations, counting also on the blasting AC to stifle her words, but a part of her hoped that John had heard her – that he knew she wasn’t mad in the slightest, not deep down, not for real.

 

-

 

Max was grateful for Anne being friendlier than anticipated. She then took John to the bathroom, staring him down until he complied to her silent orders, undressing and getting himself into the bathtub. She left him alone for a while, going to find a pair of scissors in the kitchen.

“I was sure that would be your priority.” He welcomed her back into the steaming bathroom.

She just sneered, uncorking the conditioner to pour a generous amount of it on his hair, before brushing it quietly for a while, being careful not to pull too forcefully at the knots which had accumulated. When she was done, he was half asleep under her hands and she had to tap him on the shoulder to make him sit straight, so she wouldn’t mess his haircut.

“Do I have a say on how long?”

“Nope, you don’t.”

In the end though, she just cut it back at his shoulders’ level, given she wasn’t a gifted enough hairdresser to attempt cutting it shorter than that – and, anyway, once it curled, it would look good enough.

“You’re getting out of this room without that beard, by the way.” She warned him.

“How am I supposed to thank Rackham for everything?”

“He’s a good person.” She answered in earnest.

“That doesn’t help me figure out a proper thank you.”

“I’ll think of something for you. It’s not like I’m not in his debt either.”

She had finished cutting his hair, trying to clean what had fallen with a small rag she had brought from the kitchen. He sunk himself under the water for a few seconds, and emerged with closed eyes. She rubbed his scalp for a second, and he leaned quietly into the touch.

“Do you want to talk?” She asked, sitting cross-legged by the bathtub.

“Not really.”

“You should. It would help you figure out what you want. Have you thought about it?” She was talking about Flint, and she knew he knew.

“I played myself, Max. It’s not any more complicated than that.”

She comprehensively nodded. That was a first step towards admitting the proportions his attachment to Flint had taken.

“Maybe he played himself too, having this thing with you.” She suggested.

“I miss them.” He admitted, barely above a whisper.

“Them?”

“Miranda. She lives with him. There used to be someone, with them, but he’s gone. It was like you and Jack and Anne. In a way. And I miss her too.” That last word was as far as John was going to get in addressing his missing Flint, and it was already much more than what Max had hoped for.

“We’ll figure out a way, won’t we? That’s what you always tell me, remember?”

He smiled, somehow content with that simple reassurance.

 

-

 

When she stepped back into the kitchen to wash the scissors, she found Jack and Anne obviously out of a fight, or maybe just taking a break from one. She immediately felt anxiety rising in her throat – maybe they regretted having extended their hospitality to her and the messes she carried? But Anne seemed angry with Jack, not Max, and Jack was fidgeting nervously in response.

“Is everything okay?” Max asked, staying in the doorway, darting her eyes from one to the other.

“I’m fine. Jack’s still lacking a personality and some balls though.” Anne answered.

“For fuck’s sake, Anne, I’m doing my best to accommodate quite a lot of constraints here. You could make do with a little more fucking understanding.”

“What’s going on?” Max asked, trying to cut short the quickly escalating exchange.

“Well, Teach wants to organize a little barbecue here, to celebrate Charles’ and Flint’s coming back from wherever they were fucking holidaying. And yeah, _obviously_ , you can’t be here while that little gathering happens. And it’s not like Jack’s got enough of anything to say no to fucking Edward Teach.”

Max wondered if that was truly what it was all about.

“Hum, yeah. Sure, no problem. I can go stay somewhere else for the weekend or something. It’s no trouble.”

She hadn’t expected Anne to suddenly stare at her with so much animosity.

“Fuck the two of you.”

She left, leaving Max and Jack to stare at each other in the kitchen.

“Did I miss something?” She asked him.

But he was still looking at the spot where Anne had been seated, seemingly unaware of Max’s presence. Grasping a bottle of whisky from one of the higher shelves, he poured himself a finger, gulping it in one go.

“You know I’m not ashamed of you, right? Not of her, not of you, not of the two of you together.” He said after reigning in his grimace.

It sounded like the introduction to a lengthier explication, and Max simply nodded.

“But it’s complicated alright? I love her, and she loves you, and I wish I was a better person than I am, but it’s fucking _hard_ to deal with that.”

“I know. I didn’t leave you much of a choice but, I – I know.”

He poured himself another glass, before drinking it just as quickly. It must have been disgusting at room temperature.

“No one ever gave me a textbook to understand what she’s asking from me. And I can’t really go ask James for -.” He cut himself short. “Whatever. Listen. I promise you, if you weren’t my student, I wouldn’t ask you to leave. You’d be here, and I’d explain, and I’d introduce you to everyone, and I’d give her what she wants, even if I’m still not okay with all of it. My asking you not to be here is unrelated to me agreeing or not to what Anne wants. It’s just… you’re my student. I can’t flaunt you in front of Teach, and Flint, and my other friends. It’s bad enough that Charles knows, though well… I’d have a few choice words for him if he dared say anything.”

She didn’t miss the irony of bringing up Flint in this list, but there were more important things to be addressed.

“I get it, Jack. I completely get it. I’ll talk to her, calm her down. It’s just a misunderstanding. It’s all new for all of us, and… she doesn’t realize the strain it’s putting you under. I’m not saying I realize it either, but I’m sure we can talk each other through it all. I’m certain. We both love her – that will make for a good solution, in the end. I promise.”

She didn’t know if her words were empty or not, but she knew he needed to hear them.

“Our little _ménage à trois_ really feels sustainable to you?” He asked, somehow bitter.

“We can _make_ it sustainable. For her.”

He sighed, pouring himself another glass, that he simply stared at this time.

“I don’t think your friend’s presence upstairs is helping. She can be quite possessive.”

Max sighed.

“Yeah. Silver’s not as easy to like as he thinks he is. But he’ll be gone by the end of tomorrow.” She answered.

“Don’t misunderstand me – he’s most welcome here until I have to accommodate Teach’s barbecue needs. Which happens to be in three days, by the way.” Max laughed, going to the sink to put the scissors and the rag. “By the way, does he know he’s not supposed to talk about…?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. He won’t say anything.” She reassured him. “I’ll go talk to Anne. Please don’t drink yourself to death. I really can’t deal with all three of you at the same time, okay?”

 

-

 

“Can I come in?” She asked after knocking on her and Anne’s door.

There was no answer, but she came in anyway, finding Anne scrolling mindlessly on her phone. She sat on the edge of the best, extending an arm to lower the phone away from between the two of them.

“Don’t be too harsh on him.” She dived, head first.

“One day he’s okay with everything, one day he’s not. I’d like him to set his fucking mind on a decision, instead of being swayed with the wind all the time.”

“We’re not asking something easy from him. It doesn’t come naturally to people, to just… share love.”

Anne shrugged, the idea sounding obviously preposterous to her.

“I’ll be leaving with Silver tomorrow.” Anne suddenly raised her head at that last remark, ready to get angry again, but Max didn’t let her: “Talk. With Jack. Tell him you love him – I think that’s all he wants to hear. And I’ll be back next week. I promise.”

“Fuck you.”

“C’mon. Anne. We’re not going to make this work if we don’t try and just… talk ourselves through it.”

Anne was stubborn, Max knew that. But she knew she would come to it. She bent over to kiss her, but Anne turned her head, and Max ended up pecking her cheek.

 

-

 

John and Max left the following day, a little bit before noon. She took John back with her to her mother’s place, who was surprised to suddenly see her come back so soon, but didn’t insist too much on the reasons. They spent two days there, her mother fattening John with a devotion that made him blush half the time. Max had decided in the end to go spend some time with Billy and the gang along with John – it would give Jack and Anne space to sort things out in her absence. Maybe a full month of living together had been too ambitious, anyway.

Thanks to Jack’s helping with the money for John, they found themselves with enough to go until July while enjoying life a little bit. Afterwards, their only choice would be to work to get money for more fun by the end of August, or go back home and… wait for the end of the break while living at their parents’ expenses. Max could see that John was gradually leaning towards the second option.

 

They hitchhiked to the coast, partly for the fun of it. They got caught short by the night and couldn’t find a car for the night. Instead, they spent the night behind a gas station in sleeping bags. It was colder than anticipated and Max ended up catching a cold, arriving at the house with a little bit of fever.

The house was big, but still too small for the fifteen people who were ready to wreak havoc in it. It was right by the beach, a ten minute drive from the nearest convenience store, a ten minute walk away from the nearest neighbour. The kitchen was already a mess of empty bottles of alcohol by the time they arrived – they managed to find a little corner of what was supposed to be the dining room to put their sleeping bags in.

The weather was so amazing, the scene so incredibly soothing, that Max almost disregarded her self-imposed rule to wait until her cold had passed to go put herself in the sun with a beer. John and Idelle didn’t let her anyway, forcing her to rest and take some meds the first day. It was the good choice – she woke up okay for the second day, ready to add her own little touch to the unbelievable mess the house had been turned into.

 

-

 

They didn’t know some of the people who were there, some being high school friends of Billy. One of them was so clearly interested in John’s pretty face that she suggested he envision rebounding, but John waved the suggestion away:

“The logistics of sex in a four-bedroom house inhabited by fifteen people aren’t exactly what I’m missing right now.”

They were both sprawled in the sand, beer in hand, John harbouring proudly a stupid fedora they had found in the street a day ago.

“If logistics are your only problem, maybe you’re not _really_ opposed to the idea?” She teased him.

He elbowed her kindly, a clear “shut up” gesture. They watched the sunset in silence, even after all was left was a thin pink line right above the horizon.

 

-

 

When she came back to Jack’s house, it became immediately apparent that, even though not everything was settled, at least some things had been discussed. The two rooms arrangement was abandoned – they would just figure out on the spot every night who would sleep where, or if they just wouldn’t all sleep together in the king bed.

She was with Jack preparing dinner when she heard him nervously cough.

“I might have – said more things than I was supposed to to Charles and James, during the barbecue.”

Max stared at him, not understanding what he was talking about.

“About Silver.”

“You what?!”

“I had a little bit too much to drink? And I didn’t know… I don’t really have an excuse.” He finally gave up trying to justify himself. “I just said he’d spent a night in jail before you bailed him out. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” She echoed him, angry. “That’s it?”

She wouldn’t have batted an eye at Jack’s story if Flint hadn’t been involved in it, but for now all she could think about was John’s reaction when she would have to tell him that Jack had told Flint that he’d been busted for drugs.

“Fuck, Jack, why?”

“They don’t care. I mean, they were kind of sorry, and James seemed really afflicted? That’s it. Like. We know we can’t save all of our students.”

“That’s not -.” But she cut herself short. As far as Jack was concerned, that was the only matter actually.

She couldn’t really do much about it, so she just sighed, making a note to herself to tell John anyway. She knew it was best not to leave those kind of things unaddressed, lest they come back to bite you.

 

-

 

Thing was, she wasn’t quick enough in addressing anything – and John called her first.

“Jack’s really not that good at keeping his mouth shut, is he?” He greeted her.

His tone wasn’t angry. Actually… she didn’t really know what his tone was. She stood from the bed, exiting the room naked under Anne’s curious stare, and went to stand in the hallway.

“Sorry about that. I was about to call you to tell you -. How did you know?”

“James called.”

Max raised her eyebrows in a silent manifestation of utter surprise, even though it was pointless, given no one could see her. After too long went by without further explanations, she asked:

“And?”

“Depends if what I tell you will make its way to Jack Rackham or not.”

“For fuck’s sake -.”

“Kidding, just kidding.” He laughed. “I’m invited to his and Miranda’s beach house. Doesn't that sound fun?”

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter VIII

* * *

 

“ _I am hopelessly in love with a memory.  An echo from another time, another place_.”  ― Michel Foucault 

* * *

 

True to his word, Randall had cleaned John’s room to allow him to put all of his stuff and not feel like a passer-by in his own house. Even Betsy’s little plaid had been moved back to his room, and she quickly caught back on her old habit of crawling on his head around the first hours of day, after having spent the entire night next to his feet. It entailed her waking him violently any time he moved during the night and she felt threatened enough to claw his feet to blood, but her purring was nice and soothing, so he let her stay.

“DeGroot says you’re welcome to pass by the garage whenever you feel like it. He’ll count you hours.” Randall told him over their first dinner.

“Yeah. I’ll do that.” John hummed, blowing a little bit on his soup. Randall never understood that soups weren’t for the summer.

“And what’s that mess with your dorm fees?”

John threw him a blank look. He had no idea what Randall was talking about.

“People from your university’s administration called, saying there was a problem with your dorm fees and they couldn’t get a hold of you. Did you manage to get a new phone, by the way?”

John blinked, trying to review in his mind how and when he had paid his fees. He usually left it to Jacob to remind him when to send the money, and Jacob had never forgotten.

“What else did they say? For the dorm fees? It’s weird, I’m pretty sure that’s something I’ve actually decently dealt with before leaving.”

“Told them to call back on my number.”

“Okay. And yeah, I found an old ass phone. Same number.”

John forgot immediately about it, going back to his room after having washed the dishes to collapse in front of a film, falling asleep halfway through it.

 

-

 

He was at DeGroot’s garage when his phone rang. Unknown number, though it looked somehow familiar to him. He left his post, gesturing to Dobbs and Dooley that he would be back in a second.

“Yes?”

“You’re a very hard man to get a hold of.”

John stopped dead in his track upon hearing James’ voice, his stomach churning on itself in a way half pleasant and half scary.

“Silver, move the fuck out of here!” Dooley yelled at him from afar, and he realized he was in the middle of the way.

He exited the garage altogether, steadying his breathing before bringing the phone back up to his ear.

“Yeah, didn’t really mean to.” He answered tentatively.

“Still quite successful at it anyway. How are you?”

John couldn’t tell if he was failing to read James’ mood because of how much he was reeling inside at the sound of his voice, or because James was voluntarily doing his best to not sound the way he felt.

“Fine.” John answered, laconic. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from unloading stupid stories of what he had just been through for the last two months – not only half those stories he didn’t want James to know about, but a part of him insisted on reminding him that all the time that had passed shouldn’t be enough to make him forget the last time they had seen each other.

“I was told you ran into some kind of trouble? Miranda and I were worried. We talked to your guardian – quite a character, that Mr. Randall.”

John stood motionless, mouth agape.

“How did you know about that?”

“Blame Jack Rackham. Always talks too much for his own good. Maybe tell your friend Max not to overshare with Anne. Anne and Jack are basically the same mind, mind you. Though I’m glad he did in this -.”

“Wait, don’t tell me you called Randall and told him you were from the admin?” His brain suddenly patched the two informations together.

“We did.” James couldn’t quite hide the undertone of amusement in his voice. “Told you, we had quite some trouble getting a hand on your whereabouts without that.”

“Okay. This doesn’t make sense. But thanks for your concern. I’m out, and fine.”

“Mr. Randall told me you’re back at his place for the month.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“Five minutes ago. He said your former number worked again.”

John had found a little irregularity in the sidewalk that he kept nervously footing. He didn’t feel quite capable of processing the conversation – what was going on, James’ friendly and benevolent tone, the number of times he had hoped something like that would happen during the last two months; it all stuck him silent, when all he wished was to keep the conversation going for as long as he could.

“Still there?” James asked, after the silence stretched for too long.

“Yeah. I don’t really know what to say, though.” That was as true as truths came.

He thought he heard James sigh on the other end of the line.

“That must be a first for you. But it’s on me, I guess.” Another heavy silence went by, during which John still didn’t feel okay enough to talk. “Hadn’t expected it to be quite so scary to hear you running out of things to say, though.”

James voice had gone back to actually conveying emotions – worry, laced with hurt, mostly – and John felt relief enough to joke:

“Free advice: enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I’m more than fine if it doesn’t, actually.”

That was a heartfelt confession, and it made John’s chest get a little bit tighter.

“What do you want?” He asked after having braced himself for the answer.

“I wanted to be sure you were okay.” James answered mechanically.

“And now that I am?”

More silence went by, and John grew resigned to this conversation being nothing more than James trying to verify that it wasn’t his fault John had been in trouble, and in the case that it was, that the consequences weren’t too dire.

“Listen, James, I’m fine. Don’t worry – I’m not your responsibility. My blow-ups aren’t either, by the way. I was a basket case long before I met you guys.” He said when the silence stretched on for too long. He heard James’ sharp intake of breath following his last sentence. “Do you understand?”

“I know. I know.” James said, after a few seconds. “I’ll leave you, then. I’m sorry I bothered you during work. You’re at work, right?” The question mark was hopeful; almost an invitation for John to expand on his answer.

“Yeah. Doing some hours at a garage. It’s owned by -.” John had been about to start explaining about DeGroot and the garage, but he cut himself short. There was no point in explaining anything – it wasn’t like James was still a part of his life. Like he had ever been. “Yeah. At work.” He finally concluded.

Just as had been the case so far in the conversation, another silence inserted itself before James’ answer:

“Alright then. Bye, John.”

“Bye.”

John hang up before another pregnant silence could come about. The loud creaking coming from behind him, the wind blowing quite roughly, his own breathing – everything suddenly overwhelmed him. _He had just had a conversation with James_. It seemed so alien – so unlike everything his life had been for the last two months, that the tightness in his chest turned from pleasant to constricting in a second. He breathed deeply once, twice, thrice. It did nothing to alleviate the feeling of light headedness that had taken hold of him.

There hadn’t been a single day since the beginning of the summer holiday when he hadn’t wondered what it would be like to hear James’ voice – to hear him say anything, as long as it was addressed to him, as long as it was somehow _about_ him. And now that he’d had it – the dull ache James’ voice had left in its wake was something he couldn’t wait to get rid of.

For as long as the prospect of hearing James’ voice had been a faraway fantasy, John’s feelings had been hopeful; now that it had become reality, James’ voice was only another reminder of what he had almost had, and yet managed to recklessly squander away.

 

-

 

The day hadn’t been over when his phone rang again. He couldn’t pick it up, because he was having a shower after work, on his way to catching up with Dooley and Dobbs for some beers, and found a missing call instead. It was James’ number, and he thought he should probably log it in the new phone. Betsy crawled on his laps, demanding his attention as he did, brushing her face on his chin. When he ignored her for too long, she quietly bit him, and when he still didn’t give in, she gave up and went back to her spot at the corner of the bed.

In the meantime, he still had no idea whether he should be calling back right now or not. James’ parting words earlier had felt decisive, but at the same time John was pretty sure all James had wanted to tell him hadn’t been told – the missing call a confirmation of that last fact.

As he was still hovering his finger on the call button, Dooley sent a message.

_You coming?_

_Yeah, just a moment. I need to make a call._

_We’re at the Andromaque. Move before we finish all the food._

John didn’t let himself ponder too much after having received the last text, and immediately called James. It wasn’t his role to figure out what to say.

“Hey, it’s John. Sorry to bother you, you called?” John thought he heard cutlery and glasses being moved around, before the familiar voice of Miranda could be heard from afar:

“Say hi for me.”

“I heard that.” John anticipated. “Say hi back.”

James sounded like he had left the room, and John was about to tell him he wasn’t patient enough for lengthy silences this time around, but James started talking sooner than expected.

“Sorry for the call this morning. I should have like… made cue cards, before calling you. Knowing how inept I am at modern communication.”

“So what, you’ve made cue cards this afternoon before calling again?” John had only been joking, happy to somehow have found a James he seemed familiar with, but James was deadpan serious when he answered:

“Yeah. More like… bullet points.”

John couldn’t help himself and started laughing. He should have considered taking things less seriously from the beginning, instead of torturing himself about each and every little word – it wasn’t like he had anything to lose, had he?

“I’m listening.” John said.

Because of all the agitation, Betsy seemed to have remembered him being around and came back, still demanding an attention he was far from willing to give her, as James started talking.

“I am sorry for how things went, at the end of the semester.”

“Yeah. I’m not particularly blameless either.”

“I’m not discussing the merits of the blame each of us chose to cast on the other. I’m saying I should have handled it differently. And you weren’t – you weren’t in a position to handle things differently than you did. That’s what I’m apologizing for.”

John nodded to himself, understanding what James was trying to say all too well. Reminiscing on their five months together was this weird experience he had undertaken on quite a number of occasions, when John kept wondering what he should or could have done differently than he did and failing, almost every time, to see how he could have.

“Got it.” Betsy’s tail brushed his nose and he smoothly tapped her head to tell her to stay quiet. As if it was of any use.

“Good. Second bullet point is I would like to see you. Bullet points don’t make for a real conversation.”

John breath hitched in his throat, and he remained dumbfounded for a second. He had anticipated James trying to clean his conscience, not offering… this. Betsy bit the hand he had nervously gripped on his knee.

“Unless you don’t want to, and this conversation can serve as a more friendly closure than… the last one.” James added when John let the silence stretch for too long.

“It’s not -.” Betsy’s next move was painful – her bite drew blood, and he had to take it upon himself not to let his knee jerk reaction knock her meanly to the floor. “Betsy!” He chastised her.

Vexed, she finally left him alone, and he peeked at his hand. It wasn’t as bad as the first stab of pain had let him think it would be.

“Oh, I hadn’t...” James began on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know -.”

It was a good thing John had so much training in figuring out James’ train of thoughts, because otherwise he would have been utterly lost at what James’ panicked tone was hinting at.

“Oh my God – James. Betsy’s the damn cat.” He corrected him.

“Oh. The cat.”

“Yes, the _cat_.” John repeated for emphasis, before getting up to go run some water on his hand. As he walked to the bathroom, he finally answered: “I’d like to see you. But I really don’t know what more we could say to each other than we already did. I don’t have anything to add to what I already said, and did. And it wouldn’t be much use to stare at each other going round. We did that for five months. It didn’t lead anywhere. Unless you figure out more bullet points.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat. And I’ll work on the cue cards then. When can I see you?”

 

-

 

John spent his evening with Dooley and Dobbs enjoying his beers. He felt better than he had felt in weeks. He was going to see James. And despite their repeated insistence on having a conversation, or discussing their relationship, or drawing a line somewhere in the future where they would set things square, John had seen enough of it to know it was just their way of copping with what they had.

The truth was it had taken less than what he thought to tentatively make his way back to the place he had never wanted to leave – a small corner in James’ life. It wasn’t the most stable of corners, and James’ whimsicality and lunacy had been further demonstrated by the last conversations, but after going so long without it, he considered it more than enough.

 

-

 

Miranda was the one driving the car when it parked in front of Randall’s house. John was waiting for the two of them in front of it, lazily stroking Betsy and enjoying the sun. He had skipped his engagements at the garage, pretexting a stomach flu, and Randall had been so eager lately not to alienate him he hadn’t called John out on his bullshit.

He had prepared himself for the sight of James – had reminded himself, made a silent mantra, to stay calm and collected. It was James who had come back. Who had reached out first. Now, all John had to do was to not make him run away again. Yet, he still couldn’t contain the somersault of excitement his stomach executed when he saw James’ silhouette on the passenger seat.

He got into the backseat of the car before Miranda could think of turning off the engine. They both turned around to look at him with different smiles plastered on their face. James’ was lopsided and eager and John wished for the barest of seconds that they were alone. It would have made for a reunion more to his tastes. But Miranda seemed genuinely content to see him, and that was something he was happy to have too.

“So, where are we going?” She asked.

“Out of town. Everyone around here knows me otherwise – and explaining him is hard", he pointed at James, "but explaining you _two_ is out of my range.”

“Just give me directions.” She answered.

 

-

 

The second they were all three seated and had placed their orders, Miranda excused herself to go to the bathroom.

“So, you’ve seen me now.” John gently teased James, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of him ever since they had entered the restaurant. It made John blush and his chest tighten pleasurably, but he wished he wasn’t the one who had to act on it.

“Yeah. You look fine, by the way.”

It could have been a compliment if John hadn’t known what James thought he knew.

“I haven’t been doing meth for the last two months, y’know.” John began fidgeting with his fork, turning it around mindlessly. It was still a curious experience to be under James’ stare and to have his attention.

James’ lips curled in a smile.

“Now I do.” He said, bringing his hands nearest to John’s. “Can I?” He asked.

John took a second to understand, and quickly looked around, even though he had already checked that he knew no one. He nodded then, and James’ hands came to envelop his, quieting his fidgeting. Their heat went all the way to John’s chest, curling in soothing waves.

He hadn’t anticipated the contact to make his throat grow tighter, in a swell of emotions he had so far only thought were going to be happy. Now he also felt his weariness coming back, the same one he had felt as Max had nursed him in Jack Rackham’s bathtub.

James seemed to notice his features altering, and squeezed tighter in response. They remained like that until Miranda came back to her seat, next to John.

“So, John. Did James tell you we’re going to our beach house in a few days?” She asked. He would have felt unsure under her attention had he not grown used to her stern looks. Now all he felt was soothing reassurance to have her in his vicinity.

“Well, I remember you had told me so much like… before.” He concluded, for lack of a better word.

“Did he tell you you’re invited?”

“Miranda...” James suddenly said, too late to interrupt her.

“Now, you can’t walk it back.”

“I wasn’t going to.” James sulked.

John could only smile at their back and forth exchange. It felt like being back at their house – only better, because back then none had been comfortable enough to fall so easily into such a pretence of domesticity.

“So, John? The only program would be bathing, and cruising. James’ boat is still ours for now – we should enjoy it before it’s gone.”

“I’ll burn it to ashes before Alfred gets his hands on it.” James answered, deadpan serious. No one had a mind to contradict him.

John was actually a little bit lost between their exchange, though he remembered that Alfred was Thomas’ father and they were having trouble with him. He’d watched enough movies and tv shows to know how rich people were when it came to owning stuff.

“It’s really nice of you but maybe not -.” He began to decline.

Sure, he was happy to have _this_ back for a while – it didn’t mean he felt sure enough of himself to go spend God knows how long alone in a house with the two of them and their biggest demons.

Miranda’s phone began ringing, interrupting him. “Speaking of the devil.”

“You don’t have to take that.” James said, trying to snatch the phone away from her, but she was quicker.

“Of course I do.” She looked at James while gesturing towards John as she got up with the phone in her hand: “Convince him.”

John saw her going outside before picking up.

“You’re still in your… like, troubles?” John asked as James was rubbing the bridge of his nose. He seemed angry, but… reasonably so. As a matter of fact, it looked more like resignation, which was a strange sight to see on James.

“Thomas’ father wants the beach house and the boat. I mean, that’s the pretext. Bottom line, he just wants to make our lives miserable.”

“Looks like he’s doing a pretty good job of it.” John said.

James ignored his last remark. “You’re really welcome. With us, I mean. And if you’re afraid we’re going to have a fallout while you’re stuck with the two of us, I can promise you can leave whenever you want.”

“Oh, fantastic. I won’t be a prisoner. How reassuring that you think of making that known in advance.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

John chuckled. It looked like James had forgotten his propensity for sarcasm whenever he was feeling uncomfortable.

“I don’t think having me in your former dead lover’s house with his widow is like… the best set of circumstances for my own self-preservation. Not when you don’t look like you know what you want.”

“I know -.” But James cut himself short before spewing the lie he had been about to feed him. “And what do you want?” He asked instead.

“Am I not sitting at this table with you? After everything? And with very minimal insistence on your part to have me be there?”

James was polite enough to bend his head in slight shame.

“I promise I want you there. It would be much more enjoyable. And Miranda is growing sick of my sulking around the house.”

“I have trouble picturing you sulking anywhere.”

“It’s pretty low-key.” James thought best to specify.

“I’ll think about it then.”

James left it at that.

 

-

 

Miranda stopped the car in front of the house.

“I take it that’s Betsy?” James gestured at the cat, laying elegantly on the warm pavement in the sun.

“Yup. Charming, demanding, and spoilt rotten by both Randall and myself.” John added.

Miranda laughed.

“We’ll be back to pick you up either Wednesday or Thursday.” She said.

“I haven’t said yes.” John answered.

“You haven’t said no.”

“None of you have let me finish my “no” sentences and-.”

John was blindsided by James’ hand suddenly coming to rest on his cheek. James’ body angle was weird, given he had to turn around his seat to face him, but John barely noticed as James kissed him. It was closed mouth and chaste, his thumb stroking his cheek.

“It’ll probably be Wednesday rather than Thursday.” He added, once he had let him go.

But John barely heard him, suddenly noticing Randall’s figure watching from the front porch.

“ _Fuck_.” He muttered.

Miranda was the quickest to understand:

“Will that be a problem? We can take you with us now if need be. Or wait.”

“Hum, no, it’s fine. Please go.”

“You call if you need anything.” James told him as he exited the car, but John barely heard him.

He walked to the front door with Betsy on his tail, Randall going in before him. He didn’t allow himself to look back, however much he wanted to. Randall’s consumption of Fox News was just enough on the “too much” part of the spectrum to make John weary most of the time to discuss that aspect of his life, though Randall already knew what there was to know.

This could go either way.

“Isn’t he old?” Randall asked once they were both inside the house.

“Older, certainly.”

“Who is he?”

“I know him from Uni.”

“Anything else I should know about him and… the lady, whoever she is?”

“I’ll be spending next week with them, probably. And… I think that’s all.”

“Are you being paid?”

John almost facepalmed himself. This was the cringiest question he had ever been on the receiving end of.

“No. Absolutely not.”

This could still go either way.

“Fine, then call the vet to move Betsy’s appointment before you leave.” Randall finally said, dropping the topic “I need you to translate me whatever that moron says – I don’t get shit to her babbling when you’re not here.”

And it was left at that.

 

-

 

He called Max, eager to hear whatever she had to say to him on his situation. He felt like he needed to hear her opinion, not only because she was rarely wrong, but more so because he was so engrossed with what was happening he felt incapable of making his own. After chastising her for Jack’s incontinent mouth, he told her he had been invited to James and Miranda’s beach house.

She remained silent for a few seconds.

“I’m not one to judge anymore.” She finally said.

“There’s nothing to judge. I’m just curious as to… whether you think it’s a good idea or not.”

“That’s the textbook definition of judging, Silver.” She mocked him.

“Come on, help me out. Should I or shouldn’t I? What is even _happening_?”

“Don’t try to fool me in pretending you’re considering not going. You love trouble so much, how could you not fall head first into what they’re giving you?”

“Well, I’m trying to act responsibly. Enough trouble for a year, remember Deputy Hands’ pep talk?”

He could picture her rolling her eyes at him despite not being able to see her. She too could be predictable. “Seriously. I’ve done my fair share of the torturous and torturing student/teacher relationship. I’m done looking for trouble.”

“As long as you keep going back to him, or letting him go back to you, it’s not gonna end. You just have to choose whether you think it’s worth the tumultuousness of it all – or not.”

“So you don’t have a miracle cure for me?”

“Nope. If I had any sort of miracle cure, I’d be applying it to my fucking life for starters.”

“Back at Jack’s house?”

“Yup. Strolling naked in the hallway, as a matter of fact.”

John almost choked in surprise.

“God, sorry for interrupting. I’ll leave it at that then.”

“Yeah. Keep me posted. I wouldn’t want this all to be a weird scheme where mysterious teacher and dead lover’s wife team up to kidnap and murder unsuspecting student in their remote beach house.”

“What. The. _Fuck_?”

“Whatever. Just let me know you’re okay.”

 

 

 


	11. Chapter IX

It was a three hours drive, during which John tried not to sleep, either too afraid to start drooling in his sleep, or because a part of him knew he was going to live something he was probably going to remember for a long time.

James and Miranda kept on talking about lawyers, notaries, and going over calendars of convocations for mediation attempts, which only lulled him further into his half-asleep state, but he refused to let it go. They drove along the ocean for the last part of the trip, and all of them went quiet as it went by the windows.

Air-con had been blasting non-stop during their trip, and the second he stepped out of the car, his bag on his shoulder, heat and humidity choked him. He could almost picture his hair getting fuzzier and fuzzier by the second, as he walked towards the house. It was actually a small place, smaller than he had expected. The ocean could be seen behind it, as it was perched atop a little hill, and one only had to walk down through some expanse of white and smooth sand to reach the water.

“Do we eat first, or straight to the beach?” John asked the second he put his bag on the floor, in the middle of the room that seemed to serve both as a kitchen and a dining room.

Silence met his question and he turned around only to find James and Miranda looking at him with perplexed expressions.

“Did I say something…?”

“It’s 2:30. The sun is too hot between 2 and 4, the beach should always be avoided during that time of the day.” James answered, putting his own bag on the floor.

It was John’s turn to be perplexed.

“For oldies like you, sure.” John finally shrugged. “So do we start preparing lunch?” He asked instead of running outside to the beach on his own. He wasn’t with his bunch of college friends – he couldn’t just do whatever he pleased. But God – he really had to help them both remember that they were less than halfway to the grave.

Well, he had a week or so to try his luck with that.

He helped Miranda with the cold pasta salad. It was weird, moving around a new house with the two of them – they all bumped rather unexpectedly into each other, and John had to summon all his willpower not to nervously start to blabber incoherently to fill up the silence. The two of them seemed to be perfectly fine with it, but his nervousness was having a hard time dealing with the absence of words.

After lunch, Miranda informed him that the room at the end of the hallway, on the left, was his, and that James and herself would share the one facing it. John couldn’t very much make sense of that arrangement, but only nodded before going to put his stuff in it. He wondered how all those rooms had been arranged in Thomas’ time, but quickly chased the thought away.

At 4 pm sharp, he exited his room, looking around and wondering whether anyone was there. James was, reading a book on the sofa, but he tore his eyes away the second he saw him. John noticed him not even taking the time to mark his page. James was wearing a white t-shirt and a black swimming suit and John realized this was the first time the two of them were truly alone since… well, a long time ago.

“I figured you’d want to go have a swim.” James told him.

John wasn’t far enough not to distinctly see James checking him out – he had chosen to forego the t-shirt and just go for the swimming suit. What good would it have made not to display his hard earned tan?

“Miranda’s not coming?” John enquired after he managed to tear his eyes away from the sight of James’ half exposed thighs to begin his way to the door.

“She’s still napping. Long drive.”

They walked in silence to the water. The beach was mostly deserted, with the only people being at least a hundred meters away. Truth be told, John really had only the faintest idea of where this place was. From the beach, he could see other bungalows lined along the hilltops, looking similar to their own in their whiteness and wealthy display of minimalism.

James had shed his shirt away and John looked with even more interest, figuring he should enjoy the quality of the skin before it turned into burnt tomato.

“Come on.” James told him, as he began to walk towards the water, and though it looked like a request, it still had the texture of a question.

John watched some more, waiting until James was waist-deep in the water to run and jump head first, splashing James and ruining his careful attempts at getting smoothly into the water.

“You little shit.” He heard the second his head emerged from the water.

John didn’t have time to start laughing before he felt James’ broad hands on his shoulders pushing him back under the water. There were a few waves, here and there, and they spent a while simply swimming, never going farther than a few meters away one from the other. John was the one to finally grasp at James’ shoulders, circling his neck with his arms and his hips with his legs, pressing their bodies together.

Their kiss was salty and lasted forever – or at least enough time for both of them to get hard through their swimsuits, thankful for the cover of the water and the quasi empty beach which allowed them to rub against each other shamelessly.

“I missed you.” James finally said under his breath, and John almost didn’t hear him – the sound of the sea and his own heart pounding in his ears too loud.

“An ill-timed confession if there was ever one.” He answered, as he rubbed himself in a slow fashion, eliciting a moan from James.

“Why?” James sounded indignant, as if the thought that what he just said being anything but romantically timed was preposterous. John didn’t find it in himself to cut that illusion short and after he had slid his hand over James’ ass, he asked:

“What exactly are the logistics for sex, now?”

“That’s a very technical way to have this conversation.” John shrugged and James added: “I’ll be sleeping in Miranda’s room. But I can spend some time with you first.”

“So I’m the appetizer before the meal?”

James pushed him underwater for a few seconds, before hoisting him out.

“Stop babbling nonsense.”

“C’mon, how am I supposed to understand your weird room arrangements when you put them in those terms?”

“I don’t want to… impose myself, that’s it.”

“Okay. We’re gonna stop having this conversation over and over, before I start feeling trapped in _Groundhog Day_ again.” John disentangled himself from James, stepping back, but not too far that he would have to yell over the sound of the waves to make his point. “I am here because I want to be. And if I didn’t want to be, may I underline that your lunatic behaviour of one step forth but two steps back in regard to me would in no way make amends for your step forth? I mean, you get my point.”

“I’ve known you more eloquent, but I guess I do.”

“Fine. Now. Who sleeps where?”

James didn’t answer, only lunging back to trap him between his arms and resume their kissing. John knew he would regret subjecting himself to such unfulfilling teasing when night still felt like decades from then, but couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not when only this felt better than anything he’d had in the last two months to try and forget.

 

-

 

John was growing starkly aware that he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable when James kissed him – and teased him – in front of Miranda, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of it yet. The two bottles of wine they all shared for dinner did more to alleviate his mood than anything else could have, and he was grateful for Miranda’s constant offers to refill his glass.

He hadn’t anticipated the alcohol making him stupid enough to blurt out:

“I appreciate you inviting me to this place. With the meaning it has. Like… don’t think I don’t… understand, or that I’m unaware of the importance of this place.”

He wanted to slap himself the second he finished. God, why did he have to be like that? Miranda was the one to answer, as James only refilled his own glass and avoided his stare.

“It’s actually good for us, to have you here. Keeps the demons at bay. You’re a good thing in our lives. I don’t think he tells you enough, and I don’t think I’ve ever said it myself so there it is. It’s good to have you here, John. It really is.”

In the end, he was glad he had taken _that_ out of the way.

 

-

 

He started regretting arousing himself too much on the beach when James straddled him, brushing their cocks through the fabric of their clothes, and he realized just how close he already was. Night had fallen, and he was drunk on some pretty good wine – he had crashed on his bed starkly aware that James had followed him there.

“ _Fuck_. Slower.”

James only smirked, and began to take his shirt off. John spread his legs wider, trying to get more comfortable, and nudged the hem of James t-shirt in a silent request for him to also strip. The ocean sounded louder during the night, and John could hear the waves tirelessly crashing.

They kissed until John’s lips were swollen enough by James’ beard that it hurt, and he nudged James to take his pants off. He was too drunk to consciously realize that his reflexes, in regard to both their bodies, were still there, despite all the time that had gone by. John could still react to James’ shifting weight with precision, and James seemed equally aware of their old habits. It had taken some time to get there – and now they got to enjoy it.

John’s moan as James took him in his mouth felt as obscene as it sounded, and he blessed the alcohol for making everything duller – he’d have come at the mere touch of James’ tongue sliding on his underside otherwise.

“Please?” He finally asked, grabbing James’ hair to make him stop what he was doing, in the hope that he would start something else.

John was barely aware of James’ manoeuvring to grab what was needed to start working him open with slicked fingers, only conscious insofar as it entailed him giving in to his body. With each stroke of James’ fingers, another weight lifted off his chest. Soon, all his worries were gone, and all that was left was the feeling of James’ body coming back to weigh on his chest, and James’ cock slowly sliding inside him.

 

-

 

“Do you remember what you asked me, the first time you kissed me?” James asked him, his head nuzzled in John’s neck and hair.

John racked his brain for a second, assessing the question and coming up short.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I asked you why you had kissed me. After looking at me like I was completely insane, you told me to just say it, if things weren’t mutual.”

John couldn’t recall it exactly, but it didn’t seem too outlandish that he’d been muddled so deep in James’ mood swings he’d gone as far as to say something like that.

“And…?” John nudged James, as he remained silent.

“I never told you it was actually mutual – has been ever since, still is.”

John chuckled, and James’ position grew uncomfortable because of it, so he propped himself on his elbow to look at John.

“I’m drunk.” John said. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about. And if you’re trying to woo me, I’ll gladly make you notice that we already fucked. Though we can of course consider a repeat, in a little while.”

“Would you agree to keep this going, with the secrecy and Miranda and my mood swings, until you graduate?”

“If we don’t kill each other by then, sure. And if you’re okay with well… me being me.”

“About that.” John arched an eyebrow, but James kissed him soothingly before answering: “How about we try to keep you out of jail? No other condition than that.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” John said as he swung an arm around James’ shoulders, more than ready to fall asleep. “And I missed you too.”

 

-

 

With every passing day, a better equilibrium was found; they bumped into each other less and less awkwardly, and when they did, it was pretty purposeful. John hadn’t realized Miranda had been stressed, until he saw her gradually relax, and understood that he had never actually seen her in any other state than carefully composed to mask her anger at… well, everything.

James kept telling him that the wind wasn’t good enough to make for a good escape with their boat, and kept on postponing it. He saw on the weather forecasts that the wind would change for their last day – John didn’t insist that he didn’t really care which way the wind was blowing in order to make for a more picturesque expedition, but didn’t want to insist too much when it came to things relating either to the boat, or the house.

The rest of the week went by uneventfully, until two thirds through.

James had convinced Miranda to switch her phone off. Which maybe explained what happened, when James and John both came back from their afternoon’s swim only to hear very loud shouts coming from the house. The moment he recognized Miranda’s voice, John began sprinting, and arrived a few seconds before James into the dining room.

An old man was standing menacingly in the middle of it, waving his arms and trying to out-yell Miranda, whose face was flushed with rage. Alfred Hamilton looked like a rotten fruit – not the kind that looks okay until opened, rather the kind which conjured what rot felt like through sight alone. Thomas’ good looks certainly hadn’t come from that man.

“Oh, so now that – a boy toy. Every time I think either of you can’t get any more -.”

John realized James had violently pushed him aside a beat too late, only once he had leaned into a chair to catch himself only to have it break under him. But things went too fast for him to linger on the chair’s state; Miranda was helplessly trying to keep James from beating Alfred Hamilton to a pulp.

“John!” She called for him.

John couldn’t beat James in a fight, even with all his youth, but he could stop him from beating someone else. He gripped his shoulders, earning several unkind pushes, but none that could hurt him. All in all, despite James’ ragged breathing, he let himself be taken away with less opposition than John would have expected.

John couldn’t quite make out the rest of the elaborate insults Alfred Hamilton kept on throwing their way – he had his back to him, his forearm under James’ throat, keeping him in place.

“John!”

But James was too late in trying to keep him out of projectile’s trajectory – the glass barely made any noise when it broke on John’s shoulder and even the pain registered a few seconds later. He didn’t let go of James, still following Miranda’s orders, and only let go when James stopped pressing against his grip, only trying to turn him around to look at his shoulder.

“Enough! You fucking fucker – get out of this house!” Miranda’s voice broke.

“I’m done with your lot expelling me from _my_ own houses. I will have you out – do you hear me, you whore? All of you, out. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

It was a good thing James was still fixated enough on John’s bleeding shoulder to not stop Alfred from exiting the house. John had been shirtless, which probably hadn’t helped when Alfred had thrown the first thing he’d gotten a grip of, aiming for James and catching John's shoulder instead.

 

-

 

“Stop, James. I’m fine.”

John couldn’t be sure, given adrenaline was probably the reason he didn’t hurt too badly – yet. Miranda was already back with a first aid kit and made him sit. The dining room looked like a mess.

“Does he do that often?” John enquired, trying to bring the two of them back to some sort of reality. Though they were both staring at his shoulder, none seemed to actually _be there_.

“I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Yeah, how about y’all begin nurturing more reasonable outcome expectations?” John was pretty sure no one heard him.

“Okay, I’m not really sure what I’m talking about, but it doesn’t look bad.” Miranda said, once she’d cleaned it.

“Just put a band aid, and let’s not talk about it again.” John insisted. He turned around to find them exchanging a look. “Don’t even think about taking me to a hospital, guys. Really, it’s nothing. It’ll make for poor tanning, nothing worse.”

Obviously, it didn’t elicit any smiles.

 

-

 

For twenty four hours following that, it was like John didn’t exist. They talked to him, asked him whether his shoulder was fine, and took turns changing the bandage, but John might as well have been the broken chair. He had no one-on-one interaction with either of them, and James deserted his bed to go back to Miranda.

The following day, he woke up in the middle of the night, unsure if he had really fallen asleep or not. He slept terribly without James – a realization he didn’t like to spend time on. Unable to go back to sleep, enticed by the sound of the waves crashing, he figured a midnight swim wouldn’t hurt. There was an outdoor shower he could use afterwards so as to not wake the others up when he came back.

The moon shone bright over the ocean, but he remained in the shallows, and didn’t let the water level reach his bandage. He had no one to patch it again once he came back if he let it go wet. He wondered if he should ask James and Mirnda to leave – he didn’t really know if it was expected from him. They hadn’t sent him that kind of signals – but still, maybe he didn’t know enough to read them if they had been sent?

Thing was, he really didn’t want to go, even with the atmosphere being what it was.

 

-

 

He went back to the house, took his shower, and got inside only to find a light switched on in the dining room. James was sitting on the couch.

“Shit, did I wake you up?” John asked.

“Miranda kicked me out. I snore too loudly.”

John edged closer to him, approaching a wounded animal.

“Oh. Yeah, that happens.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” James was comically outraged.

“I don’t really care?” John ventured as he sat on the edge of the couch. “You can come sleep in my room. More comfortable than the couch.”

“Where were you?”

“Swimming. I always loved midnight swimming. Funnier when it’s drunken skinny dipping – but well, I’ll do with what I can have.”

“I’m sorry.” James said, extending his arm to take John’s hand in his.

“Please don’t. Really.”

“It’s going to be like that. A lot. There’s no end in sight.”

John figured it was okay for him to bend over and kiss James, to assure him wordlessly that he truly didn’t care.

“Come on. Sleep is good.”

 

-

 

The sea and the weather didn’t care about the inner turmoil inside the beach house and remained lusciously enticing. And so, despite the atmosphere remaining heavy, James and Miranda told him they’d go on and take the boat out before leaving.

It wasn’t as big as John had figured it would be – there were only two sails, and the cabin was barely enough for one person to crouch in it, but it was still a boat, and James was still setting himself to raising sails and pointing the two of them where to sit motionlessly until he was done.

John felt captivated by the way James moved from one end of the boat to the other, his step assured and unfaltering – he was sitting, and still feeling about to fall at the slightest bit of rocking. They started sliding on the water without John even realizing it, and exited the little marina smoothly, at only half-sail. John turned towards Miranda, sitting next to him towards the front:

“When do I tell him I get sea sick?”

It took her a second to register what he had just said, and to react by laughing.

“Oh God, never. He’ll cut you out of life before you even realize it if you don’t like the sea.”

“The sea doesn’t like me, it’s different.”

She laughed again.

“What are you two talking about?” James hailed them, but Miranda barely waived her hand at him in response.

“Keep your eyes on the horizon. It’ll be fine.”

After a while during which John expected something – anything – to happen, he finally understood that there was nothing more to this than simply letting the soothing movements of the boat on the water take hold of him. No one was going to say anything. This was pilgrimage and he wasn’t expected to do much about it.

And so he followed Miranda’s advice – and looked at the horizon.

 

 

 


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine months later: Graduation Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I cannot believe this turned into... _this_. You know? This started out in my head as a 10k OS for SomeCoolName and turned out into this behemoth... the longest thing I've ever written, ever. I'm so happy that I've gone through with it and would like to thank every person who has faithfully followed me along; chief among those my beta, Ongi, who knew this story better than me by the end of it.  
>  A special thank you for maerzkindt, your comments were a repeated joy and encouragement.
> 
> Some, that's it. The end, you'll let me know what you think ;)

_Nine months later._

 

The big graduation party was to take place after the graduation ceremony – but for now, they could at least enjoy a modicum of celebration at Idelle’s apartment. It wasn’t every day that they got to say goodbye to Uni. It was a small committee – but it was their committee. Mostly the people from _The_ _Walrus_. It was less about getting drunk than it was about hanging out one last time as carefree and partly irresponsible college students.

Graduation was as arbitrary as time barriers came, but it felt like one nonetheless – and so everybody was learning more shit about who had mindlessly hooked up with who during the last four years than was strictly necessary.

The fact that John had been seeing someone for the last year or more still wasn’t publicized – true to his word, or maybe simply to his character, Jacob had never broadcast John’s not sleeping in their room for half the week’s nights.

Instead, John’s own personal confession was linked to Max’s, when she told everybody that they had actually met in a very drunken one-night stand during their first year. It came as a shock to mostly everybody, and John was glad Anne wasn’t at the little gathering – it wasn’t as easy going as he would like it to have been between them, and such an information certainly wouldn’t have helped.

John also got to learn that a betting pool regarding his chances of getting expelled before graduation had been going around since their second year and had been closed a few months earlier. At midnight, the winners were announced; only Max had placed her bets on him not getting expelled. He took it with laughter, but it weirdly warmed his heart to know.

“I just have flair for good business – don’t think it’s because I had any faith in you.” She warned him.

He hugged her tightly against him nonetheless, pecking a kiss on her head:

“How’s your valedictorian speech going?” He asked once he let her go.

“It’s been ready since middle school, Silver.”

The little gathering had been organized for the purpose of messing around one last time, but it turned out to be the most decent and quiet thing they had all ever done. At worst, people went home tipsy – it probably had something to do with the fact that parents would be there for the graduation ceremony, and no one wanted to be a hungover mess for that.

 

-

 

John took a cab to get to James and Miranda’s house – thanks to his TA’s job with Vane, still coupled with his work at _The Walrus_ , he could afford those kind of extravagant expenditures now. It was late, and both occupants of the house must have been asleep, but they had insisted on him going back to see them after his party so they could take him to Underhill for the ceremony. Miranda had taken his clothes for the big day as collateral.

He had the key now, but still not enough experience to be able to open the door without making noise. He cringed as he took his shoes off and made his way to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. There, he was less weary of making noise, and he was startled to suddenly hear James tell him:

“Thought you’d come back later.”

“God, you fucking scared me.” John finished his second glass of water before going to James to kiss him. James had taken the wonderful habit of sleeping bare chest during the last few months.

James’ hair was a sleepy red mess and John ruffled it a bit more.

“Big day tomorrow.” John finally answered.

“Yeah, let’s go to sleep then.” James kissed him again, and this time didn’t retreat afterwards. John closed his eyes, happy to be nuzzled where he was.

“Let me take a shower first.” He finally said.

“Yeah, but don’t go crash on the couch afterwards.”

James knew him quite well after all. John chuckled.

“I promise.”

 

-

 

When he was done, he found James’ door creaked open, and only had to push to get in. It was dark, but not dark enough that he couldn’t make out the two silhouettes on the bed instead of the one he had been expecting. As if on cue, he heard Miranda’s voice:

“Had fun?” She was barely awake and John sighed.

“Hum. Yeah.”

“Come on, there’s ample room.” James said.

John sighed again. James and Miranda’s attempts and not so subtle hints at trying to get the three of them in a bed together were starting to get to him – especially since Miranda had stopped behaving maternally – but he still hadn’t caved in and this was awfully close to all of that.

“Come on. Big day tomorrow. Today. Whatever.” James insisted.

John resigned himself, and climbed in bed on the other side of James. This one time was okay – and he had so little time for them with everything that was happening, he figured he owed them not making too much trouble about it. The second he put his head on the pillow, he fell asleep, barely aware of James arm coming to circle his waist.

 

-

 

James was still asleep, lightly snoring, when John woke up. He disentangled himself from the sheets and James’ arms, going to sit on the edge of the bed. It was still early, but he began reviewing everything he had to do that day – starting with looking presentable.

Miranda wasn’t in the bed. He left the room and heard running water from her bathroom. He followed suit, went to take a shower, and found her in the kitchen. Breakfast was sumptuous, but he was still underdressed, not having been able to find his clothes yet.

“You’re not celebrating with us tonight either, are you?” She asked him.

“Nah. Big big party. Probably won’t be coming back here either. But, first, I’ll be having dinner with Randall. I wanted to invite you guys, but I thought like – baby steps. Let’s not rush into stuff. You know?”

Miranda smiled, laying a cake in the middle of the table.

“I know.” She said, and added, gesturing to the cake: “And I believe that’s your favourite.”

John peaked at it as she opened the box, and, wide-eyed, could only confirm her assertion.

“It is.” He smiled at her. He still didn’t feel comfortable enough for effusive and physical displays of affection, but that would do. He finally added: “But a more urgent question is: where’s my weird-ass hat?”

 

-

 

The stadium was reconverted, with an esplanade for the speakers, and rows after rows of plastic chairs lined up to welcome parents and students. The place was overflowing by the time John made it, Jacob and Billy on his toes. He lost them both to their parents, and stayed on the phone with DeGroot, who was explaining to John that he and Randall had gotten lost on their way to Underhill, and would probably be late.

Left alone, John found himself wandering pretty aimlessly, from one acquaintance to another, until he saw Miranda from afar. She was talking with Charles Vane and Edward Teach, a happy and quiet smile plastered on her face. He realized James was behind Teach and he retreated – graduation, and the “after” were good news for them, though it wasn’t going to be immediate. James couldn’t very much start displaying him the second John was out of school, which would have killed all of their attempts at privacy so far. Second, they were still not a hundred per cent efficient on the communication skills thing. In addition to all that, John wasn’t eager to have to explain to his friends his relationship with a man both older than him and still romantically involved with his dead lover’s wife.

Miranda saw him and left Vane and Teach alone to come talk to him, keeping a respectable distance and a polite tone. They were lost in the crowd, and it was doubtful anyone would notice them talking to each other.

“So, how does it feel?”

“Never thought I’d make it to this day. I actually discovered yesterday that my friends placed bets on when I’d get expelled.”

She laughed, and he saw her extending her hands towards his arm and stopping herself at the last moment. He smiled at her.

“It’s okay. A few more hours, and we can even envision having threesomes on the steps of Guthries’ office.”

She laughed heartily, shaking her head disapprovingly, but her smile betrayed her.

“I don’t think it works like that. But yeah, it will take a little bit of the pressure off.”

He didn’t have time to echo her that it would, as Max suddenly appeared by his side. She eyed Miranda with more aplomb than John ever thought he could see in her – which meant a whole fucking lot – before the two women simply nodded at each other in acquiescence in the end. Though they had never met, Max knew who Miranda was, and Miranda knew that Max possessed that information.

“I’m trying to escape my father, please don’t mind me.” Max told him.

“Oh, that fucker’s there?”

“Shhh. Keep your voice down. Wants me to introduce him to Teach, or whatever. God. _Parents_.”

She seemed to realize her blunder a bit too late, her features suddenly turning into a grimace.

“Fuck. Sorry, John. Didn’t -.”

“It’s fine. Randall will be late, but he’ll be here for the bulk of it.” He rushed to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want your father either, if that was my choice.”

“He’s coming this way, I’ll be running. See you – don’t think we’ll see each other before the party. Text me when you get there. Say hi to Randall on my behalf.”

She nodded to Miranda as she left, and John followed her with his eyes as she disappeared in the dense crowd that seemed to be expanding in every direction. It was another fifteen minutes before people would be asked to go take their seats, and John had no precise plan except shuffling aimlessly shaking hands with people he thought he knew, so instead he remained in place, enjoying Miranda’s silent companionship with no one around to make a commentary.

“This is underwhelming.” He finally told her.

“Don’t worry. It’s just the beginning of something else.”

She remained vague. Insofar John had conspicuously avoided the topic of his immediate future and it was beginning to loom as a contentious subject between him and James. James wanted him to go for a doctorate – which would have sounded silly two years ago, but with him quieting down and getting to work, wasn’t that far-fetched a possibility – but John was adamant about not wanting that. The problem was, he didn’t really know what he wanted.

Miranda nudged him out of his thoughts, and pointed to James, who was looking at them and clearly ignoring whatever Jack Rackham was saying. He was partly formal, with nicer pants and a cleaner button down than what he usually wore to go to class, and John couldn’t help checking him out. Him and Miranda must have been making quite the pair looking at James.

John finally cleared his mind of enough filthy thoughts to smile and James nodded in return.

 

-

 

Randall had brought DeGroot with him to the ceremony, and John found the questions about his two dads from the people who didn’t know him that well particularly endearing. The three of them went to dinner – DeGroot gave him a greeting card full of illegible writing from Dobbs and Dooley and the other guys at the garage, that John was pretty sure to be nothing more than varyingly elaborate dick jokes.

 

-

 

At the party that night, he got drunk enough that by 5 am, him and Max were both pretty eager to leave.

“I think it’s impeccable timing, this whole graduation slash becoming an adult thing. My body’s not gonna be able to deal with that shit for much longer.” He told her as they exited the club, relying heavily on one another.

She laughed too, before walking further down the back alley, and throwing up. John figured he should do the same, but a weird pang of hunger made him realize he must already have.

“Okay. You know what, you’re right. Time to grow up. Let’s share a cab home.” Max told him once she was done.

It took them a while to find one, given all those in front of the club refused to take them on account of their looks.

“When do we each inform our teachers part-time lovers that their colleague is also fucking-not-fucking one of their students?” Max asked, sitting on the corner of the sidewalk as John kept an eye out for any passing empty cab.

“We could save that as a treat for later. When we’re knee-deep in job hunting and looking for ways to alleviate the mood at home.” John suggested.

“Actually, I already got a job offer. From Eleanor. Said she had given my credentials to Woodes Rogers and upon her recommendation he was interested in giving me a position at his consulting firm.”

John was surprised, but not _surprised_. Obviously, Max would be set on a fast track to success. He still asked:

“And?”

Max was playing with her bracelets, in a rare display of nervousness.

“Well. It’s well-paid. My father has heard of it, and he’s over the moon. Even my mother thinks it’s cool – can’t blame her, it’s good money.”

“You don’t sound that thrilled yourself.”

“Anne wouldn’t… be thrilled at me working with Eleanor. Her jealousy works in complicated ways.”

“It’s not jealousy. She just doesn’t like how Eleanor treated you.”

“Yeah. Probably. And Jack isn’t a big fan of Rogers himself. Can’t pinpoint it exactly, but his grudge’s almost personal.”

John groaned as another cab went by and ignored them.

“So what? You’re letting people and relationships standing in the way of your fast track to success?” He asked her.

She rubbed her temples, before standing up, not answering.

“Sit. I’ll do it.” She said. After a moment, she added: “I have to answer by next week.”

John grinned from ear to ear.

“I know what you’re going to say.” He told her, just as a cab finally stopped. She didn’t leave that one time enough to refuse them on account of John’s hair and hopped in. The driver would blame himself later for not having kept the doors locked.

 

-

 

Once home, he took the quickest shower of his life and jumped on James’ bed without a second thought on being discreet and amenable.

“I thought you weren’t coming back tonight.” James said, as John began trailing kisses down his neck.

John didn’t answer, instead doing his best to take James out of the sheets and stripping away the only pair of clothing he had kept after the shower.

“I would very much like to make this very unmemorably important day of my life a little bit more memorable.”

James kissed him, clearly interested in whatever John was talking about, as long as it entailed John keeping his hands on him.

“Well, Miranda and I wanted to tell you about something tomorrow – today – whatever.” James said, as he began helping John undressing him.

“She’s gonna be mad at you you didn’t wait for her to tell me whatever you’re about to say.”

John didn’t anticipate James suddenly switching their positions, rolling John’s body under his. He propped himself on his elbows, and John, content, let himself enjoy the reassuring weight of James coming to rest on his chest.

“Yeah. Never stopped me before, has it?”

John cradled James’ head between his hands, trailing his tongue on James’ lower lip, in a gesture he’d had the pleasure of learning after expansive time trailing his tongue on every part of James’ body during the last nine months.

“Tell me, then. Before we get to the memorable part.”

“Well, have you ever been to Paris?”

 

_the end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everybody who has arrived to this point. It's been a joy all along. 
> 
> My apologies for any red herrings I left along the way without following through on them - a lot of things were cast aside for the sake of consistency, but only later in the story (Randall was meant to play a much bigger role for instance). I wrote as I updated, which is something I doubt I'll ever do again, despite the wonderful experience it's been here.
> 
> PS: The moral ambiguities left in the story because it's written in John's point of view are intentional - they, in no way, leave the adult who was in a position of power all along, off the hook; personnally, they lead to me believe in a very difficult and complicated relationship going forward. 
> 
> Again, thank you for sticking with me until this point. Thank you.


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